Treacherous
by Las-Botas
Summary: Argentina, 1948: The American & British governments think fresh-off-the-streets Emma Blanchard is their ace in the hole for infiltrating an infamous Nazi escapee's abode. It's up to her protector, MI6's Killian Jones, to guide her and not get attached. But you know what they say about 'best laid plans'... Rating for sex, thematic elements, and eventual violence.
1. Chapter 1

_Hey-o! So I was going to wait awhile into the hiatus to start posting my next multichap—but I figured with the last CS-lite episode, *shrug* why the hell not? So, a warning: this won't be a light, funny one like my other 2 fics. And —disclaimer—though it's based on history, the story is complete fiction. I've merged 2 Ingrid Bergman films from the 1940s as the plot base: __**Gaslight**__ &amp; __**Notorious**__, though you don't need to be familiar with them to get the story. Whole fic is rated 'M' for sex, thematic elements, and eventual violence. _

* * *

_Foreword: In the aftermath of World War II, several 'ratlines' were developed by sympathizers in order to help Nazis and fascists escape the post-war repercussions coming their way. A paper trail of faked passports would be set up to smuggle the escapee from Germany to either Spain or Italy, and from there to various countries, primarily those in South America. _

_Buenos Aires, Argentina_

_February 1948_

The slotted blades of the overhead fan turned lazily, ineffectual in the summer heat, while below it, two bodies writhed about on the bed's thin cotton sheets. One of Emma's legs was hooked over Killian's arm as he hovered above her, driving into her tight heat relentlessly.

"Jesus, Killian," she moaned, fingernails digging into his sides to pull him even closer. "Fuck, you feel amazing, you always feel amazing." Her thighs slipped in the sweat they'd generated, and she hitched them back up above his hips.

Killian took a moment to grin down at the woman spread out beneath him so invitingly. He loved hearing his name—his _real_ name—on her lips; she didn't get to say it often enough.

"I can't seem to find any room to complain on my end either, darling," he smirked.

She rolled her eyes, smiling. "Please, I may faint from all the flattery."

He didn't respond except for a chuckle, pulling her up suddenly against her chest, bouncing her several times upon his cock before pulling her off abruptly. "End of the bed, my dear," he smirked, giving a soft slap to her ass. "Hold onto something."

Emma scrambled down the bed's length, gripping two of the iron bars on the foot frame, looking over her shoulder expectantly, and Killian felt his cock twitch. By gods, she was a majestic site, he'd love to tie her hands above her head to those bars, and…but today they'd wasted enough time. When she'd come up to his apartment today, they'd wordlessly agreed on nothing hurried, going at a slower, more sensual pace to match the temperature. It had been fantastic as ever, but now, to put it crudely, they had to move things along.

He gripped her hips firmly, and pushed back into her in one fluid thrust, reveling in her sharp inhale. The arm that ended at his wrist curled around her, rubbing against the soft skin of her stomach, while his hand gripped the bedframe next to her right one, then let it trail to where they were joined.

"Are you close, Emma?" he murmured when he felt her thighs start to shake.

She reached a hand back, threading her fingers through his thick hair. "Yes," she whimpered, pushing back against him vigorously. "Make me come, Killian. Please!"

"If the lady insists," he responded, biting down on the soft spot between her neck and shoulder and continuing to rub over her clit. She let out a loud shout, spasming around him simultaneously.

""Kil—!" she clapped a hand over her mouth, as Killian thrust twice more, coming with a loud groan. He collapsed back onto the bed, pulling Emma by the waist along with him.

"Why'd you cover your mouth?" he asked, once she'd settled her cheek against his chest. "You know I love to hear what I do to you."

She snorted, gave him a smack on the shoulder. "Don't want to give the neighbors any more cause to talk. You know, I'd expect someone in your position to be more discreet. Aren't you the one who's supposed to be telling me what to do? You're a terrible minder."

"Perhaps, the grasshopper has become the master," he intoned, in a horrible Charlie Chan voice, making Emma laugh again.

"I highly doubt that," she responded, while Killian started inching down slowly, pressing his lips to a bead of sweat on the side of her breast, while his hand reached up to cup it.

"Oh, no sir!" Emma sat up, swinging her legs over the side, and reaching for her camisole that had been flung over a bedpost. "No time for any of that."

"Must you always rush off?" he groaned, falling back onto the pillows.

"You know damn well what I'm rushing off for," she said, now doing up her blouse buttons. "I shouldn't even have stayed this long. Rumpelsteiger's going to send a car for me in an hour, and I haven't even selected a dress yet!"

Killian propped himself up on an elbow, resting the side of his face on his scarred wrist, watching her get re-dressed. "Whyever not? I thought that was a great pastime of women, selecting just the right outfit for this party or that."

"Excuse me if I haven't gotten used to being invited to parties yet, Nazi ones or no." She said it casually, but it still made Killian's chest constrict. He didn't want to think of Emma being alone for as long as she had, or the circumstances, so instead he continued lecturing her.

"Well…another thing," he grumbled, sitting up, "you really shouldn't refer to that man and his son as 'the Rumpelsteigers'. They're going by "Gold' here, and you ought to do the same."

Emma darted into the lavatory to remove her diaphragm, then straightened her slip and pulled her gray skirt on over it. She popped her head around the corner. "Why? They go by 'Rumpelsteiger' when I'm around."

"Aye, but it's for your own safety, lass. Within their walls is fine, but if the outside world heard you calling them that…well, it's a different story."

Her eyes narrowed. "I thought you checked for bugs again."

"I did! Everyday. But…oh, bloody hell, just be careful!"

Emma grinned; bringing him to the point of exasperation was always great fun. She reached down to slip her gray pumps back on, then rounded the bed, leaning down towards Killian and running a palm down his stubbly cheek.

"When will we see each other again?"

"Don't fret about it. As always, lass, I'll find you." He cupped a hand behind her neck, and pulled her down for a searing kiss. Killian nipped her bottom lip, then plunged his tongue into her mouth when she opened for him, thoroughly ravaging her before he pulled back.

"Golly!" Emma exclaimed, looking dazed as her hand drifted to her swollen lips.

Killian smiled smugly. "Think of that while Gold Jr. tries to make his pathetic attempts to brush up against you this evening, darling."

Her expression grew serious. "Even if I didn't have—I mean, even if it weren't for you, Killian, he wouldn't tempt me. Him, his father, and their friends are all despicable people."

"Don't let your emotions take over, _Swan_," he said, reverting back to her code name as a pointed reminder. "Just remember the end objective."

Her eyes grew hard at his return to a cold, professional tone. "Yes, _Hook_," she replied. "I remember perfectly." And she turned and left, shutting the door a little harder than necessary.

Killian sighed, leaning back against the headboard. She'd taken so well to recruitment and training, sometimes he forgot how deep Emma had been plunged right off the bat. For all she'd been game for, she was still, essentially, a civilian. It wasn't fair, but then again, it hadn't been Killian's call.

* * *

_Seven months earlier, New York City_

The man glanced over his newspaper, then rolled it up and set it on the bench beside him. Any minute now, that flash of blonde hair and darting gaze would be along, as it had for the past couple weeks.

Only this time, Killian Jones was ready.

And there she was—inching closer and closer to the fruit cart, inconspicuous in her worn tan trenchcoat. He doubted she'd notice the vendor wasn't the usual, easily-fooled fathead. Today, it was a similar looking agent—and she wouldn't get away with her typical routine.

Emma ran her fingertips lightly across the rows of oranges, apples, and plums, drops of dew still glistening on them. She was sure her coat, though old, put her above suspicion. It didn't look like something a dame who was a step away from being out on the streets would have, at least. She'd snatched it a couple months ago off a chair back at some outdoor café, nobody noticing as she'd folded it over her arm and strolled away nonchalantly. Her heart rate picked up, as it always did, when her fist closed around a particularly plump apple—her target. Yes, it was wrong, as the orphanage matrons had done their best to beat into her all those years ago, but one more piece of stolen food was one more man she didn't have to lie on her back for. Emma had only made it three steps when those dreaded words came: "Hey, you gonna pay for that, little lady?"

_Goddammit, the question that was the bane of every thief's existence_. Emma turned stiffly, apple still clutched tightly. _No_. No, she didn't want to have to make herself available tonight, please no, she was so close….

"I…" she took another step backwards, and the vendor sprung, much more agile than she would've guessed a man of his girth to be. In seconds, her wrists were pinned above her head, the man's large stomach pressing her against the brick wall.

"I don't take kindly to thieving scum," he hissed in her ear. "And if you ain't got the coin…."

"I'm not!" she wailed, struggling futilely in his grasp. "I'm not sc—"

"Is there a problem here?" A velvety, accented voice broke through the confrontation, and Emma raised her head towards it. Roosevelt's ghost, it had to be the most striking man she'd ever laid eyes on. Dark hair, windswept, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to drill right through her. His black suit was sharply tailored, and his gloves and shoes looked to be real leather. _A man of some means_, she mused. _But what does he care what happens to me_?

"This filthy tramp was tryin' ta steal from me, mister," the vendor responded, releasing one of his hands holding Emma down. "An' I don't take kindly to—"

His expression unchanging, the dark stranger tugged off one of his gloves with his teeth, then swiftly snatched it and struck the vendor across the face with it.

"I'd watch how you speak about and in front of a lady, you swine," he said calmly, looking at Emma now. "Shall I get you your apple, love?"

_What did he want for it? They all wanted something. Still, he was quite pleasant looking, maybe it wouldn't be so bad…._ She nodded, staring at the ground while the man tossed a nickel at the vendor, muttered some last comment, then grasped her elbow securely and led her towards the park across the street. Once seated side-by-side, Emma had no clue what to say, twirling the apple in her hands. After a minute, she looked up, startled to see the handsome man staring at her, smiling gently.

"So…what do you want?"

The man looked confused. "What do I want?"

"Yeah. You—you did me a service back there, mister, and I'm grateful. But I know men aren't content with a 'thank you most kindly', now are they…sir?" She was surprised to see him look almost angry at her words, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

"Haven't had a very smooth go of it, have you, love?"

Emma let out a very unladylike snort. "You could say that, sir. Though that's phrasing it mildly." Her head jerked up. "I'm not looking for your pity, or anything. Sorry…I don't know why I just said that to a complete and utter stranger."

"You can say anything you want, or don't want, to me, darling. You see,"—and here the man actually covered her hand with his un-gloved one—"you're something of an open book."

Emma pulled her hand out from under his. She wasn't getting any dangerous vibes from him, but he was certainly an oddball. "That's kind of a presumptuous thing to say, mister—?"

"Ah, well, I suppose we're past formalities now, aren't we? However, my name segues right into what I want from you." He started to reach into his inside suit pocket.

Emma glared. "So you do want something from me." She stood up quickly, hands in fists. "Dammit, are you a copper? Playing some game with me, are you? You're all the same, think toying with the beggar's a great blast before throwing me in the clink for the night—"

The stranger pulled her back to the bench by her wrist. "Settle yourself, ma'am. I'm here to entreat a favor of you. I actually know quite a bit about you already, Emma." Before she could react (_how did he know her name_?), he flipped open what looked like a thin billfold right in her face.

Curiosity got the better of her, and Emma leaned over what looked at first glance to be some international ID card. But upon further inspection, her eyes widened.

"Killian Jones…MI6? But—but isn't that—?"

"The British Secret Service? Aye. Out to protect Queen and country, and all that lot."

She raised a brow. "And what could the British Secret Service possibly want with whoring, thieving trash?"

There was that jaw clench again. "Don't speak of yourself as such, Emma. You're actually quite an important person—to your country, my country, and quite possibly, the whole free world."

Emma could feel her jaw hanging open, but no matter how foolish she probably looked, she couldn't bring herself to care at the moment. He was off his rocker, without a doubt. "I—what? I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, but I'm afraid you have the wrong person. I'm—I'm nobody—just an orphan who grew up on the streets, doing what I could—what I _had_ to do—to survive. I've never mattered to anyone, and I never—"

"But you do, lass," Killian Jones said, unruffled, tucking his ID back into his suit. "What I'm going to tell you is, at first, going to sound like something straight from the cinema, but…please keep an open mind."

She sat back slowly, hands on her knees. What else did she have to do? The man might still be a nutter, but at least he was entertaining. "All right, Mr. Secret Agent. Let's have it."

He visibly relaxed, giving her another gorgeous grin. "Well…'spose I should start at the beginning. Emma, for years the Yanks have tried to get together a covert structure like the one we Brits mastered years ago…and after several starts and stops, it's finally clicked. It's not common knowledge yet, but let me tell you about a new, comprehensive unit called the Central Intelligence Agency. And the CIA considers you to be a vital component to their next operation."

* * *

**A/N: Well, hope you liked the first bit! Planning on this being the writing exercise that gets me through the hiatus. Oh, I wonder if anyone knows which 1933 movie I took their meeting scene from? Hint: It was remade in 1976 **_**and**_** 2005\. Review, por favor?**


	2. Chapter 2

_Well, I was going to wait a bit to post this segment too, but I'm stuck at work with nobody here &amp; nothing to do, so….Also, so glad this fic has gotten a good reception! Wasn't really sure how a post-WWII CS fic would do, so thanks!_ _(Or maybe it was the smut? lol)_

* * *

After yet another nick with the pin, Emma threw it back onto the vanity, blowing out a frustrated breath. Her hair fell down to its full length once again.

"Anna!" she called for the maid. The younger woman always had perfectly coiffed hairdos. Emma hoped asking for help didn't give away that she was far from some high-bred lady, but she was down to the wire.

"Yes, Missus?" Anna poked her head into the room, her hair in two simple braids today. "Oh dear, madam!" she exclaimed in a heavy Norwegian accent, "You're not ready—"

"I know, Anna. Could you—" –Emma gestured at her head—" –help?"

Within minutes, Anna had managed to tuck Emma's hair into a tidy chignon. "There now, that's better," she said, admiring her handiwork. "Not to say you don't always look bee-yoo-ti-ful, Missus Emma, just that—"

"It's quite alright, Anna, I didn't take offense." Emma had learned soon after their first acquaintance that it was best to just cut the girl off before she turned a simple comment into a speech.

The heavy door knocker at the opposite end of the house sounded, and Anna let out a little squeak, scampering out of the room to go answer it. Emma looked back up at the vanity's mirror, still not used to the view of herself in such finery. Besides her hair and the emerald pendant necklace, her look included a flowing, elegant long black dress, the halter straps meeting behind her neck, and then branching out, criss-crossing her back to meet at the waistline. When she had first arrived at the bungalow nearly four months ago, all the rooms had been furnished, there was a fully-equipped kitchen, mostly with appliances she planned on never using, a gramophone, and a closet full of brand-new clothes, both casual and formal.

"I guessed your size," Killian had smirked when they'd had their meet-up later. "How'd I do?"

"On the money," she'd murmured, rising on her toes and running her lips across his jawline. "But to be fair, you had intimate intel on the woman's figure in question."

"'Women' is just another subject I take great pleasure in knowing instinctively," he cracked, giving her a wink and a pat on the bum, and Emma had lowered back to her soles, disappointed. There were times he seemed so focused, so engaged by her very presence—and then he'd make some flippant remark or swing things back to business, and she'd crash back to Earth, like some deflated balloon the day after a party.

_He doesn't have cause to act any differently_, Emma told herself sternly as the memory stung anew, _You're just a willing and available cunt like you've always been. And at least Killian treats you better than any other man has, no matter the reason_.

"Missus?" Anna had returned, breaking through Emma's thoughts. "Meester Gold—the son—has arrived for you." Emma didn't miss the disgusted sneer that flickered briefly over the girl's mouth, and she hid her own smile at it.

"Thank you, Anna. Tell him I'll be right out."

* * *

Killian strode over to his makeshift bar, pouring out a healthy splash of rum, and took it out into the muggy air on the balcony. His fingers drummed restlessly upon the railing, a scowl creasing his forehead. He knew Emma hated her interactions with the Golds and their posse, but that didn't mean that younger one wouldn't try and take liberties, if the full report on him was anything to go by. Of course, Emma could take care of herself, but even she had limitations. Killian remembered about three weeks into his shadowing her—on that particular night, she'd brought some wide-set brute home with her. Less than two hours later, the man had departed, hand against a puffy, swelling lip. Killian had delighted in the revealed feistiness of the Swan girl, only to have the grin wiped off his face shortly after when she'd left the boardinghouse, head ducked trying to conceal a black eye. It went against his assignment—all protocol, really—but Killian had sent two CIA lackeys to track the offender down, and beat him to within an inch of his life. He'd sauntered up afterwards, the man cowering below him, between his attackers.

"W-who the hell are you? Please, whatever you want—"

Killian had planted his polished shoe firmly on the man's chest. "What I want, mate, is to never set sight on your repugnant mug in this fair city again." He'd tapped his prosthesis to his chin, the man balking at the metal hand. "Scratch that—you aren't welcome in all of New England. Do you know of the butcher on East 8th and Broadway?"

"Y-yes…?"

"He's shipping out a van of steaks to Atlanta at dawn, and you're going to be on it. In the back."

"But—but those vans are packed with ice! I'll freeze to death before I make it!"

"That's a chance I'm willing to take, mate. Take the risk, or my friends here will finish the job."

A gaggle of children shrieking as they ran after a ball in the street jolted Killian back to the present. With a growl, he tossed back his drink in one gulp. Emma had been trouble for him since he first laid eyes on her, no matter how carefree he tried to paint the connection between them.

* * *

_Seven months ago, New York City_

"You're right," Emma said flatly. "I don't believe you. Everything you just said, I mean…You're a liar! Or—or a crazy person…or both! You don't expect me—"

"Of course not," Killian broke in smoothly. "But I really must insist you at least consider everything I've laid out here. Take a night…take a day. I'd like you to be protected whilst you do so, though." He rubbed a hand up the back of her upper arm. "Where are you staying?"

Emma thought of all her earthly possessions, crumpled in a burlap sack at the boardinghouse room she'd be kicked out of by the end of the week for lack of funds. "Just—just a week-to-week apartment," she mumbled, fingers twisting in the frayed hem of her dress.

"How would you feel about a suite at the St. Moritz while you think on the dilemma I've just served up to you?" Killian asked, a dimple denting his cheek.

Emma stilled her fidgeting. "Now I _know_ you're feeding me a line."

He stood, taking her with him. "Not at all, darling, and I'll prove it." He started to walk, and with her arm in his hand, Emma had no choice but to follow.

"Hey! Hey, Mr. Jones—"

"Call me Killian."

"Fine, Killian—I haven't agreed to anything, and if you think—"

He stopped suddenly, spinning her to face him. "Lass, I've been tasked with watching you for a long time. Longer than you'd be comfortable knowing, I've no doubt. Why, I'd wager I know you better than you know yourself. Let me just ask you this—what've you got to lose just by pondering all this? Do you really want to go back to that dilapidated hovel you call a home tonight? Hands over your ears, barricading that flimsy door against—"

"Fine!" Emma held up her hands. "I'll go. But this doesn't mean I'm agreeing to this malarkey."

He didn't respond, just grinned and led her a couple blocks away where a sleek, silver Rolls Royce idled by the curb. Killian opened the back door for her. "Hop in, love."

Emma slid across the seat, head spinning. She couldn't tell if all this would turn out to be a dream or a nightmare. _But does it really matter which_? A little voice in her head whispered, _What's your life worth at this moment, anyways_? She leaned back against the plush seat, closing her eyes, rubbing at her temples. True, she could decline all the poppycock this Killian Jones was doling out, and go on her merry way. Probably go right on to an early death by starvation or exposure, swept up with the city's street cleaning some morning. Or, she could buy into this ridiculous "mission", live a few months in relative contentment, and quite likely everything would end with a bullet between her eyes. Killian had outlined the possibility of 'unplanned completion' briefly, as he had rattled everything off. Still…she'd die a hero. A hero for her country—she snorted at that; what had the country ever done for her?—and maybe even a somewhat hero, an avenging angel, to the millions who had perished in the war. The glorification angle did have some appeal.

"I'll do it," she said in a monotone, not opening her eyes.

She felt Agent Jones turn towards her. "You'll—are you quite positive?"

"Yes," she replied, "I haven't got anything—or anybody—else. Why the hell not?"

"As good a reason as any, I suppose. But, love, are you—"

"Yes, I'm sure. I just have one request before this whole—whole three-ring circus begins. Can I still stay at the St. Moritz tonight?"

She opened her eyes as she felt his strong fingers close around hers. "Of course, sweetheart," he said. "I've already had them fix a room up for you."

And Emma felt the smallest inkling of warmth start to unfurl through her hardened, frostbitten insides.

* * *

Once she was checked in, showered, and wrapped in one of the hotel's robes, Emma sat down at the desk in her suite to look over the file Killian had handed off to her. She'd probably have time to read it on the plane to D.C. tomorrow but, tired though she was, she wanted to go over everything so she knew it from the inside out. Jones had been right; it was unsettling how thick of a dossier the American and British government had on her.

"You've a right to know," he'd said. "Need to see what you're getting into."

There it all was: her life laid out depressingly on several sheets of Xerox copy. Emma (various last names, first known one Blanchard), resident at multiple orphanages throughout New England since birth, ran away for good at fourteen, pregnant at eighteen (terminated), in and out of the slammer ever since, primarily for theft and prostitution. One of her mug shots stared defiantly up at her, paper clipped onto the front of her arrest records. She sat back, feeling overwhelmed at her entire past confronting her all at once. She didn't want to think about it, and flicked over to the next page—the lead-in to her selection process. There was neat Xerox of a handwritten note, from an American agent to Britain:

_We believe we have found a suitable candidate for our joint purpose. The young woman in question has no ties, neither to person nor property, and the gaps in her record can easily be redone to show a clear link to Herr Koenig. Koenig has been documented in Maine, the state of her birth, from 1918 (two years before her birth), and for several years after her birth, before his expulsion from America and return to Germany. Miss Blanchard's humble beginnings will be re-formed to present a youth lived in preparatory schools, and an adulthood mainly funded by her estranged "father's" fortune. Her bitterness at his deportation during her early years, and eventual execution will, we believe, not at all be difficult for Herr Rumpelsteiger and those who keep his company to understand and, hopefully, pity_.

The letter went on, descending into political-sounding gobbledygook, and Emma stopped reading, flipping the page and gasping when she was confronted with a post-mortem photo of Herr Koenig. She looked down to the caption in thick black marker, stating it had been taken a day after his hanging for his Nuremberg guilty verdict. A mug shot of him in his living days was attached as well, looking like a squat, angry bulldog. _A murdering bulldog_, she thought dizzily, standing up and walking to the window. She felt like her head was going to explode, and her hands were trembling uncontrollably. How could anyone expect her to fraternize with escaped _Nazis_ like it was all fun and games? Act as though one of them had _fathered_ her? True, her real father was a bastard who'd left her, but at least she'd wager he hadn't had a hand in millions of peoples' deaths. She may not have much in this world, but she liked to think she still had some shred of decency. She went and picked up the room phone next to the bed, and called the payphone number Killian had given her for emergencies.

He answered on the third ring. "Darling? Everything all right?"

"No!" Emma nearly yelled, then paused to control herself. She didn't want the hotel kicking her out. "Nothing is 'all right'. How—how do you people expect me to be around those…those _monsters_ with some half-witted smile plastered across my face? I may be some inconsequential street urchin to you suits, but I—I still—". Emma stopped, pressing a hand to her chest. Her voice had started to rise again.

Killian was silent for a few seconds, then: "Emma? Would you feel better if I came back over? This is a lot to take in, and if you need…support…I apologize, I'm sure my explanation was rubbish, and seeing everything in black-and-white—"

Emma's hands tightened around the phone. A dashing, considerate man like him, worried about _her_? In a hotel room…_alone_…with her…. She gave a little tsk. As though someone like him would think about her that way.

"I—I don't think that's a good idea. I don't need—"

"I can hear what you need in your voice, love. As I told you: open book. I'll be there in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

_Stubborn twit_, she thought as she placed the receiver back in the cradle. A lot like her.

* * *

"I bet you haven't eaten a thing since this afternoon, have you?" he greeted her, brushing past and into the room like he owned it, not commenting on the robe Emma'd forgotten to change out of. She clutched the front to her, blushing.

"I'm not hungry. I'll be right back—I was distracted, and forgot—" she gestured to her attire.

Killian flopped down comfortably in the armchair. "Horsefeathers. I've already instructed room service to have dinner sent up. And as for _that_"—he let out a low whistle—"why would you want to deprive me of that tremendous view of such fetching gams?"

She marched up to him, jabbing a finger into his chest. "Look here, bub, we're getting one thing straight. Whatever your damned intel has on me being fast 'n loose, I did it out of necessity. I won't tolerate your forward remarks."

He only gave her an infuriating grin. "You misunderstand, love. I don't care what that bloody file says on you. Those are just cold facts. Don't forget, I've been watching your day-to-day interactions. I've learned your straightforward approach to things, as well as your nuances. For all the lemons you've been handed, you've still got a—a pure heart." Killian stood up, walking towards Emma until her back was against the wall, positioning a still-gloved hand on either side of her head. His left wrist bent at an oddly sharp angle, but he continued talking before Emma could study it more. "I apologize for the comment. I don't think any less of you. In fact, I think you're bloody brilliant for doing all this." His right hand drifted up, swirling a golden strand around his finger. "Amazing."

She tried to let out a laugh, but it came out more like steam escaping a teakettle. "That's—that's a silly thing to say, Agent Jones. We've just met today, and nobody's ever thought I was _amazing_."

His face was so close now, the tip of his nose brushed her ear. "Are you calling me a nobody, lass?" he asked, but there was amusement in his tone.

"N-no, it's just that—"

"Tell you what. Why don't you get in bed"—he nodded towards the other room—"and I'll bring it to you when it gets here? You must be exhausted. Top drawer of the bureau should have pyjamas, as I told—" He cut off when he saw the look on her face, held his hands up like he was been mugged. "I swear not to steal a glimpse!"

"Alright," Emma said warily, "but don't try anything. I have a mean right hook, and I'll deck you for any funny business, MI6 or no."

Killian chuckled, shaking his head as he went back to the armchair. No sooner had he settled down again than Emma flew out of the bedroom, shaking something in his face.

"What the hell is this?! I thought you said I wasn't a harlot to you, and then you leave _this_—"

Killian pried the object out of her fist, unfurling it. It was a lacy black negligee. His lips pressed tightly together. "I apologize, darling. I promise, I had nothing to do with fixing up the room, and that includes selecting your sleep attire. The CIA's Agent Mills has a perverse sense of humor." He was relieved when her gaze softened.

"You're telling the truth."

He reached out and cupped her cheek, keeping a light touch. "Let me be clear right from the get-go about one thing, Emma—I'm never going to keep anything from you. I'm going to place a great deal of trust in you, and—"

"And you're going to tell me to do the same for you," she said, sounding annoyed. "Just like that."

"Not exactly. Don't tell the CIA or MI6 this, but—well, they'd _demand_ you trust me on blind faith. Or if not that, just throw yourself at my mercy. But I'm _asking_ you to." He gave her a careful smile. "Maybe try something new, eh?"

And somehow, she did. It went against all her built up, streetwise instincts, but for some reason, Emma knew this Killian Jones was being sincere.

"Okay," she said softly, hand coming up to tentatively rest over his. "Okay…I'll try and trust you."

* * *

Emma elected to stay in her robe as long as Agent Jones was there, legs tucked up beneath her, and once they'd polished off their dinner of Cornish game hens and steamed vegetables—the most food Emma had had all at once in who knew how long—Killian went back over the files, and what would ensue in the next few months, with her.

"You'll have your own apartment in Washington for the three months you're there—guarded, of course. Prepped about everything and everybody you'll encounter in Argentina—"

"Killian? What exactly are a bunch of escaped Nazis looking to do? Another Holocaust?" She felt bile rising in her stomach.

"No—not yet, at least. They want to get back on their feet, make the world bow down to their power. Rue the day the Allies crushed them."

"How?"

"That's where we—well, we via the government—come in. We know Rumplesteiger's a key player in some new hush-hush undertaking down there. Are they stashing weapons? Are their scientists planning mass biological warfare? Won't be easy, especially with that crook Perón turning a blind—" He stopped, looking at her stricken face. "I've inundated you with information, again." Killian reached across the table and rubbed a thumb across her knuckles. "Breathe, lass. Tell me what you're thinking."

She let out a shaky laugh. "That I'm in over my pay grade."

"Would it help to know that I'll be with you?"

"Through training?"

"That, and…I'm going to Argentina with you."

Emma felt a leap in her chest, and gave her head a tiny shake at her stupid schoolgirl reaction. "I—I suppose that would make the transition—"

"Ah, ah, love, what did we agree about honesty?" He leaned back, smirking. "You're happy about the news. Don't try and be coy; why, I think you're rather fond of me."

"Someone thinks quite highly of himself. Don't be absurd; I don't know a thing about you."

"Irrelevant. I can read a woman's signals." He bent his upper body forward. "For what it's worth, I'm quite fond of you, too." Before she could craft some indignant retort, Killian looked down at his silver wristwatch. "And I've outstayed my welcome. I'll let you get some shut-eye, Swan."

"Swan?"

"That's to be your code name when the mission officially begins, love," he responded, crossing to the door.

"Wait!" Emma called, and he turned. "What's yours?"

He rolled up his left glove partway, and Emma could see his skin ended at the wrist, where some metallic apparatus connected onto his arm. "Hook."

* * *

Emma trudged into the bedroom, tossing the robe into a corner. She was just about to crawl into bed when something caught her eye—the lacy negligee, lying on top of the bureau where she'd thrown it earlier. She held it up, and after a swift glance at the front door Killian had just left through, folded it as small as it would go and tucked it into one of the trenchcoat's side pockets.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! If I don't explain the historical bits well enough, feel free to ask! Also, it's a scientific fact that reviews feed my muse *wink wink***


	3. Chapter 3

_So I had a question last time that I thought others might be wondering about. The flashbacks __**will**__ continue most likely through Chapter 5, possibly longer. But eventually, everything will catch up to the present in Argentina. _

* * *

"My dear, you're stunning," Baelthazar Rumpelsteiger smiled warmly at Emma, clasping a hand over her knee as the car started up again.

"Thank you, Bae," she murmured demurely, shifting so his hand fell off. She had managed to steel her natural shudders against his touch for some time now, though she was sure the CIA and MI6 would encourage her to accept his advances, no matter his end intentions. But whether they liked it or not, Emma knew men, and _this_ man had been eating up her little coquettish routine since the get-go—in fact, it only seemed to have made her more intriguing in his view.

He looked down, folding his hands between his knees. "I apologize, my sweet," he stammered, embarrassed. "I forget sometimes that in the company of such a genteel, esteemed woman, I should control my urges." Suddenly, he grabbed her hand, bringing the back of it to his lips. "You're—you're too good to me, Emma."

She smoothly extracted herself from his grip. "Think nothing of it, darling."

God, if he only knew. But anytime she felt Baelthazar's meaty, clumsy hands upon her, she could only think of Killian's strong, smooth fingers, intertwined with hers. Or gently—or perhaps roughly, depending on the mood of the day—pulling her down by one hip to impale her on his cock, over and over. Or softly scratching through her long tresses afterwards, when they lay spent in each other's arms.

Emma turned a smile on him to make up for the lack of physical contact. "I'm ever so thrilled about tonight, Bae. Your father does know how to plan a lively dinner party." Christ, she'd choke on all the lies and prissy talk before this whole debacle was through.

He raised a hand as if to place it back on her leg, thought better of it, and let it fall limply by his side. "I'm glad you enjoy being around our residence, Emma. Especially because tonight shan't be an ordinary drinks and dinner fare."

Her heart stuttered; what on Earth could _that_ mean? "Oh?"

He gave her a smile that was probably supposed to be charming, but only served to send a feeling like an ice cube rolling down her spine. "Yes, my pet. I've something very important to ask you. I apologize for the secrecy, but I'm afraid I do have a bit of the theatrical in me."

Emma forced herself to relax, or to at least give an impression of relaxation. She fanned herself with her pocketbook. "Well, you've certainly piqued my interest. I await your surprise with bated breath." _Or a heart attack ready to emerge from the wings_.

* * *

_Five and a half months ago, Washington D.C._

Emma lowered the sheet in front of her slowly, fixing Killian with an incredulous stare. "Are you joshing me? _Baelthazar_? Baelthazar _Rumpelsteiger_?!" She stood, taking a few steps towards him. "Did his parents hate him at first sight, or something?"

Killian actually hadn't given it any thought before now, but seeing Emma's reaction, the corners of his mouth started to turn up. "Doubtful, but—"

She shook the paper in his face. "How're you all expecting me to keep a straight face when I hear _Baelthazar Rumpelsteiger_? I'm going to crack up every time!" At this, an actual titter did escape her, and she clapped her hands over her mouth. Killian broke into a full grin as he crossed to her, tugging her hands down and holding them to his chest. He'd done quite well on his promise not to act familiar with her, he thought, but sometimes her honest reactions to things in this new world were just altogether…_charming_.

Since they'd landed in D.C., they hadn't had a whole lot of time with just the two of them; it had been a lot of Emma learning what she needed, and Killian dropping in to check on her when necessary ('necessary' seeming to be quite often). He remembered a couple days after their arrival when he'd gone to the office Emma was assigned to for the day—and being completely stunned at her transformation. Gone was the bedraggled street ragamuffin; she'd been wearing a slim-waisted tweed jacket and matching knee length skirt, black pumps that gave her calves a most becoming shape, and her hair had swung just below her shoulders, cut and permed into what he supposed was the look of the moment for women. Killian had found her gorgeous from the start, but it was obvious that _she_ believed it now, too—at least, he figured by the way she took in his expression.

"You ought to close your mouth, Jones, or you're liable to catch flies," she'd snarked, giving him a soft pinch on the elbow as she'd passed him. Since then, she'd gradually fallen into a more relaxed repertoire with him.

Killian snapped himself back to the conversation at hand, tilting her chin up with his covered metal hand, daunted by the look in her eyes. There was sadness, true, rivers of sadness in that deep green gaze. But there was a little golden spark, too—and he'd only ever seen it whenever she was looking at _him_. He could swear when she looked at him, to her he wasn't an agent, or a cripple—why, she hadn't blinked twice at his prosthesis. To her, he was a man, a whole, capable man. _Don't, you daft bugger. Can't afford to get tangled up with—to care—about a gal who's being used as bait. She's already been used and abused her whole life, hasn't she been through enough? And what of your devotion to—_

Killian dropped her chin and hands suddenly, striding to the window overlooking E Street, real and fake hands clasped behind his back. "You can give a nickname to the wanker," he replied, trying to bring an authoritative gruff back to his voice. "Most men love that tripe." He turned back towards her. "This should be a walk in the park, darling—we've been assured that the little runt's tastes run—"

"Exactly to your physique," a cold, scratchy voice broke in. "That icy, Aryan blond bitch schtick does the blubbering fool in everytime, I've heard." Regina Mills perched a hip against one of the desks, lighting a cigarette and fixing Emma with an aloof stare. "Should be especially easy for you, considering it's more fact than fiction, isn't that right?"

"You rotten—" Killian saw Emma's hackles rise, but put an arm out to stop her when she tried to step towards Agent Mills.

"That's unnecessary, Mills," Killian said lightly. "If it weren't for Miss Blanchard, who knows how much longer it would've taken to put this bloody mission together. By the time you found someone else with her qualifications, the planet might've well been up in flames."

Regina let out a short laugh, exhaling smoke. "_Qualifications_? Besides being a no-good scrounger and bottom-of-the-barrel call girl? Yes, I'm sure those are things anyone would be proud to—"

"Is there some reason you came down here this afternoon, Mills?" Killian cut in before he lost his grip on Emma. "I'm sure your superior didn't put down insulting Miss Blanchard on your agenda today. Should I have a word with him?" He knew every jab at Regina's position of being only _second_ in command for the mission really chapped her arse, and so took every opportunity available to hammer it home to the unpleasant woman. She had taken an immediate disliking to Emma based on her history, hence her stunt with the negligee, and on their first face-to-face meeting when Emma had merely questioned the reason behind her 'Swan' codename, had ensured the animosity went both ways.

"Well," Regina had said innocently, tapping her cigarette into an ashtray. "It's because this great organization has taken it upon itself to raise up a slovenly degenerate, and groom them into a passable member of polite society. An ugly duckling becoming a swan, if you will," she'd gone on, her hateful gaze fixed upon Emma. "Though I've never really seen a completely successful cutting of ties with one's past, have you, Miss Blanchard?"

What would she know of hardship, Killian thought, everything from schooling to her career had been spoon-fed to her by her rich parents her entire life. He was almost certain that she personally was responsible for their codenames. Of course, she was "The Queen". And, really, "Hook"? She probably fancied herself a great wit when she thought of that one; Killian knew she most assuredly was not. After that disastrous first encounter, Killian didn't blame Emma one bit for the near-tangible tension anytime those two were required to spend time together.

Regina narrowed her eyes at him before turning back to Emma. "We've received your itinerary, Miss Blanchard—you're shipping out in six weeks."

"Six weeks?" Emma's eyes went wide. "But—but is that enough time for me to know…well, everything I need to know?"

Regina opened her mouth, surely to say something demeaning, but Killian spoke first. "You've been doing a fine job thus far, lass, a damn fine job," he said, gently squeezing her shoulder. "I think your aptitude is unparalleled. And your training won't be done once you get to Argentina, so if you have any questions once we're there—"

"Just keep them to a minimum," Regina snarled. "Once you're integrated into their little group, they'll be watching you. Not sure how often—it'll depend on how much they trust you. Either way, they can't see you in the company of the same strange man every other minute."

Emma crossed her arms, glaring back at Regina. "So, I'm supposed to appeal to the son. But what if Rumpelsteiger—the father—doesn't agree with him?"

"He won't," Killian said matter-of-factly. "For all the decadence and worldly delights the son enjoys, the decrepit crocodile is decisively old-hat. Despite the history and ancestry we've constructed for you, you're still an American and you aren't as familiar with his culture as he'd wish."

"So…?"

Regina mashed out her cigarette furiously, lit a new one. "Oh, for the love of—you either beguile the idiot son until he won't hear a word against you, or—well, you could always do what you've done best. Forgive me if I'm _prying_, Miss Blanchard, but have you ever seduced a father _and_ his son before?"

Killian saw Emma's face drain of color, before she simply hissed: "You're absolutely vile."

Right, that was enough. Killian crossed to the desk phone and, ignoring the rotary dial, simply ordered "Humbert" into the mouthpiece.

Regina's eyes shrank to slits. "You wouldn't _dare_."

Killian ignored her. "Humbert? Right, mate, tops, everything's just tops." His accent thickened, growing more posh. "Well, a slight problem—your lapdog's making trouble for Swan. Yes—again. I don't want the spy we're sending into the deep end to be a nervous wreck over some indelicate comments. If you could just—right then. Knew I could count on you…right, cheerio." He turned back to the women, unable to keep the smirk off his face when he caught Regina's eye.

"Agent Mills, I believe you're wanted by your handler—er, first-in-command." When she looked about to say something, he added: "At once."

Grumbling some foul words under her breath, Regina tossed her half-finished cigarette at his feet as she stormed out of the room.

Killian strode over to Emma, took both her hands in his good one (he seemed uncomfortable touching her with the prosthesis, unless it was covered). "Alright there, lass? Don't let that hag get you down—I'm quite impressed by your show of patience back there." He let go of her hands, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "What do you say—time for a break? Lunch on me."

"You ratted on her for me."

"I'd do a hell of a lot worse for you, love. And I don't say that lightly."

Thinking back later on how things progressed, even with what she saw as Killian's superficial flirtations, and underlying attraction on both their parts since the day they'd officially met, Emma concluded that Killian's sweet gestures towards her that day were what finally sent her tumbling—hopelessly and completely—head over heels for him.

* * *

_Rumpelsteiger Mansion_

It didn't matter that the finest _bife de chorizo _you could get in the country was on Emma's plate; every bite seemed to turn to sawdust in her mouth. She didn't know what Bae had up his sleeve, but she was sure it didn't bode anything good—for her or the investigation. She pushed her vegetables around her plate, pretending not to notice his goofy grin at her from across the table, two seats down.

Rumpelsteiger Senior raised a hand, preparing to ask the servants to fetch the desserts, when—

"Excuse me, pardon me, everyone," Bae said loudly, standing up and clanging his sherbet spoon against his wine glass. "I have a—"

Rumpelsteiger stood up, eyes glittering angrily. "Do you forget yourself, boy? What's the meaning of this, interrupting our meal in a manner only befitting those plebians to the north?" He turned his serpentine smile on Emma. "I'm sure an expatriate such as yourself will not take any offense on the States' behalf."

Emma gripped the sides of her chair to control the tremor she felt coursing through her; the man's stilted, formal English in his heavy German accent just sounded so _menacing_, though she was sure it was knowledge of his wartime enterprises that provoked her reaction. "N-none taken."

Bae blanched. "Pa—Father, it's a matter of great importance to me, and—"

"If that's the case, we can discuss this in private."

Oddly for him, Bae disregarded the elder's wishes and plowed ahead. "Esteemed company, I'm sure you've noticed the lovely addition to our table these past few months. And, in fact, I've been keeping company with the lovely Miss Blanchard whenever possible."

_Not as often as you think_, Emma reflected gratefully, reminiscing on her stolen trysts with Killian.

"Baelthazar, you're embarrassing the young woman. Look, she's gone red," a lilting voice to Emma's right came. Emma glanced at Elsa, Bae's cousin from Norway, who gave her a serene smile, which Emma returned thankfully. There were never many other women at these get-togethers, and Elsa seemed to have taken to Emma since they were introduced. Some days it was difficult to remember that someone who was as kind as Elsa had been to her kept company with this lot.

"Cousin, please—as I was saying: I've grown quite fond of Emma, and—and I'd like to think she's grown fond of me, too." Here he stopped to give her a timid smile, pointed his wine glass towards her. "Emma Blanchard, will you do me the honor of entering into an engagement with me?"

* * *

Killian had been enjoying his pipe out on the small balcony, and didn't hear the knocking at first, only coming inside when it turned to pounding.

"Just a moment," he called as he tucked his small pistol into his waistband, frowning when it persisted. "I said, bloody hell, keep your knickers on!"

He swung the door open furiously, preparing to give the disturber of his peace some food for thought—and Emma tumbled right into his arms.

"What the—Emma, darling, are you alright?"

She pulled herself up by his arms, trying to catch her breath. "I—I thought I should…there's been a development that I—"

"Couldn't wait for the next signal? You know I always—" He peered at her curiously, not relinquishing his hold. "What's happened? Did you have the chauffeur—?"

"Of course not. You told me not to trust anyone, and I don't. I got home from the dinner party, and took Anna's bike here through the alleys."

"In your evening garb? No wonder you look ready to collapse!" He smiled. "You can take the scamp off the street, but you can't—"

"Killian, be serious. I've got something important to tell you."

He cocked a brow as she steadied herself, and moved a few paces back from him. She unfisted her hands from his undershirt, needlessly smoothing down her dress front. "Bae—Rumpelsteiger's son proposed to me tonight."

"Proposed? As in…marriage?"

Emma blew out an exasperated breath. "Well, he definitely wasn't proposing a 'round the world helium balloon adventure." When that didn't get a laugh or comment, she looked up, meeting with an emotionless mask, so she kept talking: about the short chat on the ride over, having no clue what Bae had been on about, and him finally overriding his father's objections to propose to her right in front of a dining table full of people.

Killian leaned back against one of the bedposts, folding his stumped arm beneath the other, his gaze cool. "How very gauche of him."

Emma stared at him, eyes wide. "Is that really all you have to say? I mean, do I—do I accept?"

"Are you asking me because you want to accept, or because you don't?"

"Of all the—of course I don't _want_ to! But if it'll help us in the long run, I'm…prepared to do what needs to be done."

"What did you say?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your _answer_, Emma! What did you bloody tell the simpleton?"

"Stop yelling at me! I told him it was an important decision, and I'd rather give him my answer in private, anyway. So I could come back and ask about it, of course."

"'Answer in private'," he snarled. "Spoken like a true lady."

Now she folded her arms as well. "You're behaving like a child. What the hell was I supposed to tell him? Why're you so angry at me?"

Killian pressed his knuckles into his forehead. He knew he was being unreasonable; he didn't have any claim to her whatsoever, trying to reinforce the casualness of their off-the-books meetings to her whenever possible. And she was only trying to urge the operation along. Still…the thought of that absolute worm, pawing at her, thinking about Emma _married_ to that—that wretched—

"Killian? Are you listening to me?"

He continued, ignoring her previous question. "And then what happened?" A hot poker of anger stabbed through his stomach. "Were you flattered by the little weasel's intentions? Did you let him touch you the way I do—and like it?"

Emma didn't react to his bad temper, instead simply hooked her thumbs under each dress strap and pulled them down, the slinky material pooling at her shiny black heels. Killian swallowed hard; she'd gone without a brassiere, and was clad in only a black girdle with matching black garters clipped to her stocking tops.

She kept her eyes fixated on his face, gauging his reaction as she slid her hands from her upper thighs, to her torso, to finally cup her breasts. "This—all this—is only for you now, Killian," she said lowly, kneading at her soft flesh, delighting in the bob of his Adam's apple and sweat that rolled down from his hairline. "You're all I want—all I _need_."

He shut his eyes, swallowing slowly. "Gods, Emma. You don't know what it does to me to hear you say things like that. And I know, I know I shouldn't feel—"

"Why not?" she asked, and he hated her pleading tone; at this point, he wasn't sure why he still felt the need to hold back from her. He hadn't wanted a woman so badly since—

"I—I just can't. Not now, at least. Please understand, lass."

"I do," she replied, after a pause. "And I know I haven't got any right—"

"But you do, darling. I hate to be like this, but I promise, one day…I'll tell you everything." His old grin flashed when he saw grudging acceptance cross her face at his explanation. "So…you weren't won over by Junior's affections?"

"Quite the contrary. The only reaction I had to anything regarding him was using every ounce of my self-control not to laugh at that mouthful of a name everytime someone uttered it."

"I've got a much more pleasant mouthful at hand," he grinned, pushing his trousers and boxers down his legs, cock springing free. He relished the hungry look that took over Emma's gaze, pupils blown wide with lust. "Leave your stockings and heels on, love."

She crossed to him while snapping open her girdle, then stooped to unhook her garters and wrench her underwear down her legs. But when she started to kneel, he pulled her up by the elbow.

"Much as I need your mouth on me, darling, I need to taste you, too," he said, falling back onto the bed and taking her with him. "Turn around."

Emma met his eyes quickly, and she wordlessly scrambled to settle herself over him. Ever since their first time—which happened to also be the first time she had ever been pleasured in such a way—she shamelessly couldn't get enough. Not that Killian minded in the slightest; she was the most delectable thing he'd ever tasted, without compare. She let out a soft mewl around him when he pressed his lips to her, and he groaned when he felt her mouth close over him as well, his shaft sliding down her throat. As his tongue stroked up towards her cleft, her lips stilled on him, thighs shuddering.

"Now, Swan, give as good as you get," Killian admonished as he pulled away.

Emma glanced back at him quickly, a playful glint in her eye. "Is that a challenge I hear, Hook?"

"Bet I can make you come first, Swan."

"We'll see about that," she replied, punctuating her threat with a spirited swirl of her tongue around him. His eyes pressed shut, head falling back onto the pillow. In retaliation, he plunged his tongue into her soaked sex completely and was rewarded by her surprised squeal. He didn't relent, withdrawing with a quick nip to her swollen bud of flesh before going fully in again. He grinned as he felt her grip on his ankles tighten, and eased his good hand off her leg, bringing it to join his mouth. After a particularly energetic suck on her part, Killian rapidly delved two fingers into her while biting down on her clit. It had the desired effect; Emma broke away on a shrill whine, arching above him. Killian had decided not to give her any respite, flipping her onto her back and gliding into her.

"I'm actually glad I won that round, Swan," he said over her labored panting, with another thrust that had her digging her fingernails into his shoulders. "Because, much as I love your mouth, I want to come in your delectable cunny tonight."

With all the build-up, it didn't take long; within a couple snaps of Killian's hips to hers, Emma was shattering a second time whilst crying his name, Killian with a shout that he tried to muffle in the sheets. They both fell apart onto their backs, inhaling greedily, chests heaving.

"Hell, Killian," Emma finally gasped, rolling into him, and draping a leg across his waist. "Do I have to tell you another man's asked to wed me to get fucked like that again?"

"I do love it when you talk dirty, darling." He snaked an arm under her shoulders, pulling her closer. "Liked that, did you?"

Emma leaned down, bit his collarbone. "Oh no, I hated it. It was purely _awful_." She pulled herself up, moving to straddle him. "I think I need a do-over."

"Insatiable nymph."

"For you…always."

* * *

The sky starting to pinken was the cue for Emma to return to the bungalow, before she could be easily spotted.

"Killian?" Emma was sitting on the side of the bed, redressed and ready to steal back home under the cover of near-darkness. "So I don't have to marry him?"

"Doubtful, darling. I'll speak to main intelligence, but I don't—no, they wouldn't ask you to go that far. But I should—just as a formality, you understand."

"Of course. Will I—"

"Yes, I'll ask to bring you to the meeting. They're due for an update anyway, and though this bit of nonsense is surely just that, it _is_ a new development. Don't let it keep you up at night."

She brought their intertwined fingers to her lips, kissing the back of his hand tenderly. "You're the only reason I'd forgive for keeping me awake at night. I'll miss you."

His breath caught momentarily, but he forced a grin and chucked her on the cheek. "Right back at you, lass."

Emma stood up, frowning. "Guess I'll see you at the meeting, then." The door clicked shut quietly behind her, and Killian slumped into the pillows, staring at the ceiling.

Gods, but he was a fucking coward.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you, as always, for reading. Perhaps a review as a Happy New Year's present? :)**


	4. Chapter 4

_Rumpelsteiger Mansion_

"The audacity—the idiocy—" Rumpelsteiger quit pacing, coming to a stop behind the leather smoking chair in his study, gripping the back of it until his hands went white.

"Papa, please," Bae said glumly, rubbing at the cheek his father had just hit. "She's from good breeding, good status. She's a wonderful girl, and—and face facts, at this rate we're never going to make it back to Europe. I'll never meet some upstanding pillar of the Aryan ideal, and settle down in Munich like you always wanted for me."

Rumpelsteiger stood, arms folded tightly, glaring down at his son. "I thank God that everyone who escaped through the goodwill of our allies weren't faithless cowards like my own child. Barely three years, and you've given up our objective? Decided just to live off my money and play house with your little American doxy? She's not to be trusted."

"Don't call her that, Papa. And I'll admit, she's a silly socialite in many ways, but what's not to trust?"

His father glared daggers at him. "How you survived to your current age with this ignominious level of gullibility, I'll never understand. Why no mention of the rest of her family? Down here alone, without even another lady? Women travel in pairs, m'boy. It's as though she appeared out of thin air!" He punched his palm for emphasis.

"Don't be dramatic, Father. She said—" Bae began, but Rumpelsteiger waved him silent. "Never mind an answer, I don't care what lie she's fed you." He drew himself up as tall as possible, fixing his son with a steely gaze. "Well, have your fun now, boy. But mark my words, you'll come crawling back to me, begging my forgiveness and telling me how right I was this whole time. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but you will. And as a father should, I'll forgive you—for a price."

Bae jumped up, relieved only that his father seemed to be relenting. "Thank you, Papa. But get to know her; she'll grow on you. And just think, soon you'll have plenty of our children running about this estate—your grandchildren!" He gave his father a good-natured clap on the shoulder, and strutted out of the room, whistling.

Rumpelsteiger pushed the door firmly shut behind him, and strode over to the rolltop desk in the corner, taking out his large keyring and unlocking the left bottom drawer. He breathed a sigh of relief, picking up the small vial of clear liquid and turning it over in his hand. Of course it was still here, there was no reason it shouldn't be.

"No grandchildren of mine," he muttered lowly, delicately placing the vial back in its place, and relocking the drawer.

* * *

_Five and a half months ago, Washington D.C_.

"I can't even remember the last time I had the luxury of pizza," Emma said, taking a bite that almost halved her slice.

Killian grinned across Ciro's small front patio table at her. "Should have told me sooner, love, I'd have—uh-uh!" He reached over, cupping his prosthesis over Emma's wrist before she could lick a glob of tomato sauce off her forearm. "A cosmopolitan woman would use a _napkin_, darling."

"Well then, they're a wasteful bunch, aren't they?" she snapped, but dutifully snatched her napkin, petulantly swiping at the spot.

"Best you get into the habit. It'll be second nature by the time you touch down in Buenos Aires."

"Do you really think they'll accept me as—as someone like them?"

"Like I've said, you've taken well to the instruction, and I'll be nearby—"

"But what about when you're _not_? Don't I have anybody else to rely on?"

Killian focused on a point over her shoulder. "Hmm?"

"_Killian_. Be straight with me, like we promised one other."

"Too right, lass." His real fingers beat agitatedly on the tabletop. "The thing of it is, you _will_ have a—a guardian angel, of sorts. Only…."

"Only _what_? Out with it, you—you utterly _irksome_ man!" She was sure she sounded beyond uncouth, raising her voice to a neatly-tailored man at a public restaurant table, but she wasn't about to let anyone in this situation start to think they could have Emma Blanchard play the fool. "I swear, Killian, if you want—"

"Love, I can't tell you who they are!" he finally burst out, tone clipped. "There may be other people in your orbit that're loyal to our cause, but for your own protection and theirs, Emma, we won't be revealing them to you. Much safer for you to view everyone you meet as the enemy. Treat all you encounter as a friend, but think of them as your foe."

Emma glared across the table at him. "I thought you said you were going to place your trust in me. Having qualms about picking me after all?"

"I do trust you, darling, but I don't run the whole shebang here. Despite your inexperience, you're a clever lass, or you wouldn't have lasted as long as you have in your…previous lifestyle." He took her hand. "I'm sorry it has to be like this, but it's absolutely necessary. And don't doubt the complete faith I have in you."

She pulled out of his grip, folded her hands in front of her. "I believe you wanted to discuss some business?"

"Ah…right, right." He opened his thin leather briefcase, pulled out a crisp manila envelope. "We've received instructions for initial contact."

Emma quirked a brow at him. "In English, please."

He smirked. "What I _mean_ is, we know the particulars for your first, "accidental" meeting with Baelthazar Rumpelsteiger."

Emma felt a little thrill zing through her stomach; training was one thing, but to have a date, a place, a plan? It was _really_ happening.

"And how're you arranging for me to meet this twat?"

Killian gave a short laugh. "Well, for one thing, you ought to refrain from saying things like 'twat' in front of men of his ilk. Right from the start, they'll need to buy you as a woman from a privileged background—with the underlying anger of the reason for that privilege being torn from you."

Emma looked down, pulled at a hangnail. "Understood."

"You'll happen to meet at the horse races. Your target is a betting man. The elder accompanies him, I believe mainly to make sure Baelthazar doesn't lose the entirety of their misbegotten fortune. So, unfortunately, you may have him to contend with as well."

Even though it was all strictly business, Emma couldn't help but be fascinated by this new world she was about to enter. Of course, she knew such people existed, but to be in such close quarters with those that didn't give a second thought to laying out a sum that, a short time ago, could have fed her bountifully for a month, and on _horses_—she was, abashedly, somewhat enthralled by the façade.

"What's the name of the joint?"

Killian took a photo out of the briefcase's inside pocket, slid it across to her. "The Hipódromo de Palermo. Attracts the elite of the city, and is quite the spot for idle expatriates—such as you'll be—to meet other rich sods."

Emma studied the black-and-white photo of the racetrack, the stands—and then Killian slid another one over it of two men. They were obviously unaware of the photographer—the younger one had more of an intent expression, ticket clenched in his hand, mouth slack as he fixated on the race activity unfolding in front of him. The older man, though his gaze was focused frontward, seemed to have his ears pricked up, taking in the entertainment, while being hyper-conscious of his general surroundings. Emma recognized that look; it was the look of a criminal who wasn't sure if the law was still on their tail and was ready for flight at the first sign of unrest. That, or put an end to the source of the unrest.

She looked up, straight into Killian's clear blue eyes that were trained intently on her instead of the images. "He—" Emma cleared her throat nervously, staving off ruminating on what that heated look meant. "He knows—the father, that is— that he's being watched. Not the specifics, but he can tell. He's an alert man…his guard won't be let down easily, if at all."

"You're a natural," Killian said, sitting back and giving her a proud smile. "Really, I think you could have gone through this training regimen in half the time the CIA and MI6 decreed. Observant…cautious…plus, you'll have these blokes eating out of your hand, with your womanly charms and wiles."

She gave a dubious snigger. "I don't know about _that_. I've never—never really had to exercise any 'wiles' to do…to do what I did before. Didn't deal in picky eaters, so to speak, Agent—er, Killian."

"Well, you'll never have to deal with such riffraff again, love," he replied, jaw ticking. "If and when—I've got to be blunt here—you come through this ordeal unscathed, and by that I mean 'alive'…well, you'll be set up."

"Set up?"

"Your own apartment, city of your choosing—though I'm guessing you'll be restricted to the States. Nothing fancy, of course, but you'll be comfortable and…and off the streets."

Emma quirked a brow at him; it didn't quite add up in her mind. "That's strangely generous of the powers that be. Especially with the reception I've had so far; I think other than you, reactions towards me have spanned the range from 'frostily cordial' to 'downright hostility'."

"Yes, well," Killian mumbled, scraping at a spot on the checkered tablecloth. "I may have insisted you be taken care of in the aftermath." He looked up, surveying her reaction. "Governments tend to forget they're working with living, breathing people and not chess pieces. I demanded that you weren't to be treated like some scrap of refuse when all this is over, or your cooperation in the matter was over. It's the least the buggers can do for you."

Her initial reaction was a quick flare of anger that all this had been decided on behind her back; being independent for so long didn't have her take kindly to her life suddenly being treated like property by others. But something else made her curiosity overcome her outrage. Emma wasn't really sure she should ask her next question, but she pressed on. "Why, Killian? Why me? I assume you've worked with others in the past? Other, well…lay people? Women?"

"Aye," he said, somewhat guardedly.

"And? Ever done something like this for one of them?"

"No," he admitted.

Emma didn't really have the patience for succinctness. "So what do you see in me? Why am I so…special?" She cut herself off before she could blurt out what she really thought: that it seemed the type of gesture one would do for an individual that meant something to them. Of course, Killian could read what she left unspoken, and she regretted pressing the issue when he glanced down, closing off their line of communication.

His fingertips thrummed an impatient rhythm on the table, while he chewed on his inside cheek. "Lass, if you think…if you think I expect anything of you for this that you've…had to do for other, smaller favors before, believe me, I—I meant nothing untoward by it." He looked up then, an unreadable look on his face. "Do you really think me capable of asking for something like illicit repayment? I know we haven't known each other long, but I—"

Dammit, he was construing it as though she'd misread things and offended him over a completely innocuous gesture of goodwill. Though she really wasn't taking that at face value, Emma decided to play it safe, reaching out and linking her fingers through his. Killian startled like he'd just received an electric shock. "Killian, I'm sorry. That was a preposterous assumption to jump to. I know why I'm "special" to the government, and for a minute I thought…but no respectable person would ever think I'm special on my own. You felt touched by my circumstances, and I—" She stopped, gave him a timid smile. "I figure what I'm trying to say is…thank you."

* * *

Killian felt guilty; he knew damn well that Emma hadn't thought he was asking for…comfort in reparation for making sure she was tended to post-mission. In truth, he was far more unsettled by what he'd seen unspoken—the young girl she must have looked like once, before the cruelty of the everyday overran her expectations. Right in the moment she'd asked '_why me?_', she might as well have asked: '_So, you like me? But…why _?'

Emma stood abruptly, feeling embarrassed if the flush creeping up her neck was anything to go by. "I really didn't mean to—you know, I think I'll just walk back to Headquarters on my own." She started off at a brisk pace.

Killian got up as well, chasing after her. "Lass, there's no need—"

"Please don't feel obligated to come with me out of some sense of—of gentlemanly duty." She spun around, looking down and opening her pocketbook, fiddling with something inside. "I think it's best if—"

"Emma, listen. I should be the one apologizing…I wasn't being honest with you just now." He grabbed her arm, spun her around. "I went above and beyond for you because…well, because I like you."

She glowered at him. "I don't need your pity payoffs, Jones. I know you feel sorry for me, but—"

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I wish mercy upon anyone who feels sorry for you. You don't need it; you've gotten by on your smarts and common sense, and I've got—I've got nothing but admiration for you."

Her eyes widened in genuine bafflement. "Are you—I mean to say—_really_?"

"Aye. I _like_ you, Emma, since before we even met in person. More than I've liked bloody _anyone_ in a long time. I want the best for you—you're beautiful, and brash, and brave, and you don't deserve any of this bloody nonsense—" He broke off, rubbing furiously between his eyes. "I shouldn't be saying any of this." Killian's hand closed in a fist around his hat, crushing it, though he seemed to take no notice. He turned away. "Bloody _fuck_!" he growled as he started storming away down the street, making some poor au pair pushing a stroller jump about a mile high.

Emma stood watching him go, sucking her bottom lip in to keep from grinning like someone affected in the head. The warmth blooming in the center of her chest hadn't been felt since her orphanage days, when one of the little boys had always insisted on pouring half his morning porridge into her bowl. Of course, she hadn't even been able to enjoy that for long; he was farmed out to a seminary in upstate New York after only a few months. That was how things went: the world was full of beastly types, with a smattering of good ones who never stuck around for long. How long would Killian Jones be around for? Emma stared down at the scuffed toes of her spectator pumps.

"I like you, too, Killian," she almost whispered. "I like you, too."

* * *

_CIA Headquarters, Buenos Aires_

"Have a seat, Miss Blanchard," Regina ordered, as soon as Emma walked into her office two days after her dinner at the Rumpelsteigers. Killian was already present, foot jiggling restlessly against his opposite knee. "I have to say, the CIA and MI6 are _very_ intrigued by this opportunity you're presenting us with."

Emma's brow furrowed; she glanced at Killian, who was also giving Regina a puzzled look. "I wouldn't say it's so much an opportunity, Agent Mills, as a predicament. You see, the younger Rumpel—"

Regina waved a hand at her face. "Agent Jones has briefed us on the facts, Miss Blanchard. However, I still view the question that's been put to you as an _opportunity_."

Emma folded her arms defensively across her chest, not sure she liked where this was headed. "How so? The man's asked me to _marry_ him, Mills! Surely, you all can't expect me to—I mean, that's taking things a bit far, don'tcha think?"

Emma felt further unsettled when Regina simply stubbed out her current cig placidly, before fixing an unworried gaze on Emma again.

"I could sit here, and wax poetic about what an unparalleled stroke of luck it is, to be offered a first-class ticket into the heart of the operation—something a seasoned agent would give their right arm for. Or perhaps you'd prefer I beg you, get down on my knees, try and impart to you the virtues of giving oneself up for the good of many."

"That's not necess—"

"But I won't, Miss Blanchard. Flowery words and groveling are unquestionably not my style. So I'll give you the gritty on what currently affects you. I heard the oh-so-generous offer Agent Jones informed you about. Quite nice of him to think about your well-being, considering you survive, wasn't it? Went right over my head about it, too. Unfortunately, in our respective organizations, we have the greater good to think of—not the individual. While Agent Humbert originally agreed to Jones' little set-up for you, he's come around. If you thought you were getting any sort of _prize_ merely for going through the motions here, _ma'am_, you're sorely mistaken."

Emma's eyes were full of unshed tears as she turned them on Killian. "You lied to me."

"Lass, I swear, I didn't—"

"Not that I give a damn what odd little _thing_ you two have going on, Miss Blanchard, but Agent Jones had no knowledge of this. I had a concern, which I discussed with Agent Humbert, my supervisor. Namely, that the CIA shouldn't get into the habit of setting up every flunkey that throws us a bone." She paused, blew a ringlet of smoke into Emma's face. "We've just established a solid infrastructure, and our funds are better utilized elsewhere. However, I'm sure I could persuade Humbert to put you up at least somewhere better than that drafty flophouse you were in when we found—"

"If?" Emma spat. "Don't yank my chain, Mills, I'm losing patience. Honestly, going back to what I had before is starting to sound infinitely better than listening to you for one more second."

Regina just arched an eyebrow. "Well, I should think it would be obvious. After all, you presented the dilemma yourself."

A cold weight dropped into the pit of Emma's stomach. "You're going to make me accept his proposal."

"Now, wait one moment—," Killian got up from his seat.

"This doesn't concern you, Jones," Regina said calmly. "The decision is up to _her_."

"_Decision_," Emma snorted, tapping her index finger against her temple in mock-deep thought. "Let's see here, Mills: get married to some lowdown Nazi on the lam, and live under the watch of his suspicious father, too; or, refuse and get sent back to the slums of New York to forage, until the day I'm murdered by a john or starve to death?" She saw Killian's knuckles whiten on the chair arm.

Regina gave her a wide, phony grin. "For an uneducated panhandler, you certainly catch on quickly."

"Fuck yourself with a broomstick, Mills," Emma replied. "That's what you rode in on anyways, correct?"

Despite everything, Killian bit back a grin at Regina's rapid blinks, her slackjaw—he doubted anyone had dared speak like that to her in her whole miserable existence.

Emma continued. "I need to think on this."

Regina recovered from her shock, lit up another of her cigarettes. "You have 24 hours. Call the office within that time frame, or I'll have you forcibly put on a plane back to the States."

Emma pushed herself to her feet unsteadily, headed towards the door. Killian started to get up again.

"Don't bother," Emma said, holding up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. Her voice was flat, eyes dull. "I'd rather be alone right now. I'll get a taxi."

Killian slumped back into the chair as the door slammed, rattling the knickknacks on Regina's desk. She met his glowering scowl indifferently, leaning back and exhaling a puff of smoke.

"Nothing to get pinched at me for, Jones, the ultimate ruling wasn't mine."

"Don't play the fool with me, you ghastly shrew," Killian bit out, reveling in her sputtering. "You may have Humbert wrapped around your little finger—or should I say he's got _you_ wrapped around his waist, most nights? But you haven't got the wool pulled over _my_ eyes. "

Regina's nostrils flared, her wrist stopped midway to her mouth for another drag. "How—how dare you speak to me like that?! Do you know what I can—"

"Yes, yes, you'll ruin me, get me tossed out of MI6 without warning—you don't alarm me in the slightest. I suspect that's why you loathe me, and why you loathe Emma, too. She's wise to your tricks, and for the record, Mills, she's worth a million of you."

She let out a snort. "That bottom-dwelling, dirty—"

"Think of her however you like; it makes no difference to me. But," Killian got up, having had enough of the icy battle-ax, "think on this. You hate Emma because she's strong in spite of her upbringing, because she's _had_ to do what you only do for fun. You've both been on your backs to get what you needed, only she's done it to survive, and you do it to play people against each other, have a gas at others' expenses. I'd defer to Emma anyday over a bloody hypocrite like you."

And with that, Killian let himself out, not even bothering to look back and take pleasure in Regina's fury this time.

* * *

Once she'd arrived home and made her excuses to Anna for forgoing dinner—headache—Emma retired to her bedroom, curling up in the center of her comforter, mind a chaotic whirlpool. God, she thought she'd been in some dire circumstances before, but this…. For all Killian's talk of making sure she wasn't going to be a part of some government chess game, she was certainly a pawn now. The "choice" was fairly cut 'n dry, but was she _truly_ a tough enough customer to plunge into the deep end? Surely Killian would think so, but Emma wasn't feeling too confident in his opinion at the moment.

She rolled over on her back, feeling guilty—there was no cause to get angry at Killian over the turmoil his originally thoughtful gift to her had devolved into, he'd obviously had nothing to do with the CIA reneging on their offer. Never in her whole life would she have thought this was where she'd end up. It was all just bonkers, that's what it was.

For the first time since she'd agreed to the undercover sting, and had her life turned topsy-turvy, Emma felt a glimmer of apprehension. If she did this, no longer would she be on the outskirts, venturing into the thick of things at requested intervals. No, now she'd be delivering herself straight into the heart of the lion's den—and she couldn't foresee the outcome, no matter how she tried.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who's been reading-this was kind of a build-up chapter, but I hope you liked it anyways!**


	5. Chapter 5

_So, there's some hopping around with the flashbacks this chap, though I've tried to make it as seamless as possible. And for those of you who aren't crazy about the back 'n forth: I'm anticipating that this'll be the last chapter with them. Buuut, I reserve the right to change my mind ;) This chap was hard to get out, then all of a sudden I had a burst of inspiration-which means the next chap is already half done. Wahey!_

* * *

_Five and a half months ago, Washington D.C_.

"May I walk you home?"

Emma looked up from the photographs quickly, startled by the voice, to see Killian lounging against the doorframe, arms crossed. "How long were you lurking there?" she demanded sharply.

He scratched nervously at a spot behind his ear, not looking directly at her. "Look, Swan, I'm…sorry about that whole outburst earlier. Definitely not in good form."

Emma released the photos before her nerves crunched them into wads. "Are you sorry because you were just saying that to make me feel better, or you're sorry because you wish you _didn't_ like me?"

He shoved his hands in his pockets, crossed then uncrossed his ankles. "Can we get the bloody hell out of here first before we have this conversation?"

Emma grinned at his nervous tics, but pushed herself to her feet. "Alright then, Jones. Yes, you may walk me home." She slid her hand to the crook of his arm.

Killian relaxed marginally as they left Headquarters. At least she didn't seem to be tense or angry over what he'd let slip earlier. And she seemed content for the moment to just carry on in companionable silence.

Once they were within a few paces from her apartment building, she gave him a nudge of her hip. "Out with it, Hook."

He groaned inwardly; he should've known she wouldn't just let it go. "Right, then. So it's—I—it was definitely the latter. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable in the midst of all this upheaval, lass. You've got enough on your plate as is." He swallowed slowly, then decided to continue. "Don't worry, Swan, I shan't be some lech staring after—"

"_Ilikeyoutoo_!"

He stopped, turned and looked down at her, eyebrows shooting sky-high. "Pardon?"

She let go of him, took a step back. "I like you too, Killian, ever since—well, let's just say _I'm_ more of the lech here. I've never liked anyone and had it turn out well for me." She looked down, digging her toe into the pavement. "It just always means trouble, in the end. But…."

Without warning, Emma jumped up on her toes and swung her arms around his neck—giving him only a brief warning before her lips were on his. He closed his eyes, sinking into the intoxicating feel, taste, and smell of her as her warm mouth melded to his, her suede-gloved hands twisting into the hair at the nape of his neck. There was some kind of floral scent wafting from her that he hadn't noticed earlier, a tang of oregano still on her tongue. Killian moved his prosthesis to her waist to pull her closer, and his hand to cup the back of her head, probably spoiling her hairdo, but bugger it all because _his_ Emma was kissing him. Quite avidly, in fact. Distantly, he was aware of some impudent newspaper boy giving a low whistle as he walked home from a day hocking his wares, an old bird clucking in their direction as she strode past walking her poodle.

Emma broke away first, resting her hands lightly on his shoulders, a small smile on her face at his dazed expression. "I—I'm kinda stuck on you, too, Killian," she murmured, their noses bumping as she backed away, scuttling backwards through her door, closing it in Killian's face before he knew what hit him.

Emma leaned back against her front door, heart skipping wildly. Damn, but he was just as fantastic a kisser as she'd imagined, far too often in the long nights since she'd met him. If she was still in the midst of her stint as a street seductress, she wouldn't have had any issue with wrapping one long leg around Killian's waist as they kissed outside her house for all to see, and dragging him into her abode afterwards. But she'd been handed this new, conventional persona, and she meant to own it, at least for as long as she could resist the pull between the two of them. She was going to look like, act like, and just plain enjoy _being_ a fucking respectable member of polite society—for however long she was destined to live.

* * *

Thus began a kind of evening ritual, without either of them noticing at first: Killian would wait for Emma's studies to conclude for the day, and, if she wasn't with him already, would walk her to her apartment. The first few nights ended with a kiss much like the one that started it all, which gradually escalated within a couple weeks to full-out snogging sessions just inside Emma's doorway, to avoid spectators. Killian felt foolish, but he honestly hadn't just plain enjoyed kissing a woman since his days as a naval cadet—and even then he was sure it was the uniform that had been the initial lure.

"Swan," Killian murmured, as he alternated applying little nips and kisses to her neck. "We're leaving in two days."

Emma froze, eyes flying open, her hands freezing mid-tangle in his thick hair. Suddenly it was hard to breathe; she really hadn't been thinking on the impending date. It was much easier just to pretend this cycle of a respectable job and a divinely handsome man walking her home at night might just continue to infinity. But good things didn't last, not in her world.

_Just ask him to stay. No, he'll think you're easy. But he already knows all about—_

"Swan?" Killian ran a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. He couldn't believe he was even thinking of—he'd never indulged with another part of Intelligence before, though Emma really was more of a fringe element—

She exhaled loudly. "Yes, yes, I heard you. I suppose what you're getting at is that this"—she gestured between them—"whatever this is, has to end."

He took another step, then another, until there was brick at her back and there was nowhere else to look.

"On the contrary, lass. I'd like…I'd like to come in. If you'll have me."

Emma actually raised a hand to her face to make sure she wasn't gaping at him like she'd gone soft in the head. He wanted her? After everything he knew, had seen….A frission of heat curled in the pit of stomach, the desire spreading warmly out along her limbs. Did she want Killian Jones, top MI6 agent, devastatingly handsome scoundrel, in _her_ bed? God, she couldn't think of anything she'd wanted more in her fucking _life_. Holding her chin lightly, his thumb on the small dent in it, he tilted his face towards her, only to be met by her ducked head.

"Problem, darling?" He cupped his hand to his face, huffed into it. "My breath isn't putrid, is it?"

"No!" Emma swatted him lightly on the arm. "It's just—I mean—is this kind of thing…sanctioned?"

"I've never really been the type to give a fig what my fellow agents or, indeed, what anyone thinks, but if you—"

She ran a hand up his arm, cupping his shoulder. "I haven't cared about peoples' opinions of me in a long time, either, Killian. I just don't want to get you hung out to dry here. Especially over someone like—"

"I don't think I like where that comment's headed, Emma, so just can it." He linked his stiff, gloved prosthetic's fingers with hers. "But if you want this as much as I, let me reassure you—I can be _very_ discreet." A devilish gleam shone in his eye.

She practically yanked him off his feet as she pulled him through the doorway.

* * *

Emma sat up, slightly befuddled in her half-awake state when she realized he wasn't beside her. A glance up showed him looking out her bedroom window, and Emma relaxed, her cheek propped against her fist as she admired his hard-muscled buttocks, looking like a sculpture in the full moon's light. She'd never imagined coming together with a man could be so gentle, and yet at the same time so _hungry_—for _her_, of all women. For once, her partner had been committed to satisfying her; honestly, it was somewhat unsettling. Though, she thought, she could _definitely_ get used to it. Her cheeks heated as she replayed Killian's talented mouth and cock driving her to ecstasy several times, until they'd both collapsed apart, chests heaving and torsos slick with sweat.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to stare, darling?"

Emma smiled sheepishly and rose to her feet. "I would ask if you could blame me, but I don't think your ego needs any further inflation." She walked over to him, pressing her breasts to his back, sliding her hands around his front to lie against his pectorals. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing per se…just thinking of those I lost a long time ago."

It was probably a given that it had to do with the war, and Emma didn't think it was her place to ask about a still-open wound. "I'm sorry," she settled on lamely, fingertips pressing lightly into his chest.

"Think nothing of it, lass. My cross to bear, and all that dross." He turned around in her arms; his offhand grin was back. "What say you? Go back to bed, and—"

"You know, Killian…you can talk to me. About anything."

He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. "I believe you." He gave her a light smack on the bottom. "I promise, one day you'll know all you ever wanted to know about Killian Jones, and probably some things you didn't."

She pinched him between the ribs. "I'm going to hold you to that."

After one last, feverish coupling that night, Emma rolled over, too exhausted to do anything but let her eyes droop shut. Killian moved to her back, pulling her against him while he buried his nose in her hair. "Hope you're at least feeling a bit more relaxed about flying out now?"

"That's one way of phrasing it," she mumbled, burrowing against him lazily. She'd never felt more bone-achingly content.

"Someday, Swan," he intoned lowly, as she drifted off to sleep, "Someday, I'll tell you everything."

* * *

_Hipódromo de Palermo Racetrack_

Emma squinted across the stands. _What the hell? It couldn't be_—But it was: there was Killian, binoculars in hand, seated several rows away, but close enough to make her feel ill at ease.

"Something wrong, my sweet?"

Giving Regina a ring by the end of the day was inevitable, but at least, Emma had decided, she could distract herself from it as long as possible. Best to let the biddy squirm until the last minute. It was petty, she knew, but after the way she'd been treated, Regina certainly deserved none of her consideration.

Bae had invited her out to the very same racetrack she had first stumbled into him at—she'd "accidentally" trod upon a handful of his race tickets that had fluttered to the ground when another agent had artfully shoved past him. As soon as the fool had looked up at her, awestruck, Emma knew she had the trout on the line. If it weren't for his father and cronies, it would've been a piece of cake reeling him in already.

She looked around at the men she'd come to be familiar with. Well, it was her job to be familiar with them. Once she'd finagled that first invite to a Rumpelsteiger dinner party, Killian had told her to report back with guests' names, discernable accents to point Intelligence towards their origins, and whatever profession they'd taken up in Argentina. And she had, to the best of her abilities. The next day, once Killian had spoken with the Queen Bitch and Humbert, he'd shown her just what she was dealing with.

* * *

_3 Months Earlier_

Emma walked into the small office just off Regina's (luckily, the other woman hadn't been around), and was greeted by a conference table covered with what were obviously photographs, face-down.

She looked up at Killian, eyebrow raised. "You certainly have a flair for melodrama."

He only gave her an easy grin, completely nonplussed. "What can I say, have to have some way to liven up the proceedings when I'm not in your company."

She didn't take the bait, looking down and pressing her fingertips below the first photo. "May I?"

Instead of answering, he flipped it over himself. "You've become so self-sufficient, you have to let me think I'm still needed for some things, Swan." They both glance down.

"Victor Whale, according to you, née Wetzel. Our good Herr Doktor here was known during wartime as the Butcher of Buchenwald, for committing atrocities such as experimentation on twins, pregnant women—he'd cut them open for—"

Emma held up her hands. "I'm not a squeamish person, Killian, but please don't get into details. They might just make me throttle him myself."

He gave her one of those admiring glances she'd begun to notice more and more. "If you insist, darling. Can't afford damage to the periphery group, I'm afraid."

She pursed her lips as she examined the photo. "Hasn't done much to make himself inconspicuous in the years since, has he? Same dark glasses, black trenchcoat." Her hand fluttered at her neck. "All that's missing these days is the Iron Cross on his lapel."

"Aye, fleeing the mother country hasn't diminished his arrogance much, it seems. Moving on…" He flipped over the next one. "Jefferson Ryder, you say. Try Johannes Ritter, ex-spy and sometimes torturer for the Third Reich. Watch your words around him; he's firmly in the Rumpelsteigers' pockets.

"I _know_; I'm not a blithering idiot," Emma retorted sharply.

"Don't get your feathers ruffled, Swan; it's just a reminder," Killian said mildly, as he flipped the penultimate photo. "August Bude. Turncoat. Was in the French Resistance, and sold them out for a tidy sum. Nearly everyone in his immediate group was shot while escaping the Sturmabteilung—er, sorry love, _Stormtroopers_—and the rest of the organization was severely fractured after that. Miracle they were able to recoup for the later part of the skirmish, really."

Emma's fingertips curled back from the photo's edges, as though she could be tainted just from the man's likeness, her gaze flicking distastefully over the three face-up photos. "Any chance the drawing and quartering system could come back into fashion, for the right prisoners?"

Killian laughed. "Bloodthirsty little duckling, aren't you? I like it. Unfortunately, these clods are considered small fish by the CIA and MI6. Though that also translates to neither team caring if they're collateral damage, in the end." He gave her a wink as he went to reveal the last Rumpelsteiger crony. Emma's breath caught in her throat; she hoped it wasn't Elsa. She knew it was unwise to feel anything for one of them, but nevertheless, she just couldn't fathom someone with Elsa's temperament being some cold-blooded Nazi officer or sympathizer. Her gut instincts had never failed her before; she hated putting aside what she just _knew_ for how the stuffed shirts running the whole enterprise were telling her to approach the situation.

The set of her shoulders relaxed once the final photo was revealed.

"We're actually not sure who he is, lass, so if you know anything—" He gestured frustratedly at the young man with long sideburns.

"Hans," she said immediately. "Sorry, I don't—I haven't heard the others use a last name." Her nose wrinkled. "Of course, I haven't heard how he fits into their group, but he's a loathsome type. Always needling at Elsa, for some reason. I've already had to tell him to buzz off."

Killian gave his ear a scratch, fixing her with a contemplative look. "_Emma_," he said sternly, eyes narrowing. "I understand you're in a new, precarious setting, but that doesn't mean it's wise to form an attachment to the only other female in the Rumpelsteigers' inner circle."

"Why?" Emma demanded, gesturing to the strewn-out photos. "She's not here. What'd you know about her, Jones?"

He stepped up so he was right in her face, arms crossed, tone no-nonsense. "I have about as much knowledge of her as you, Swan, which is slim to none. And if the higher-ups haven't graced me with any of her backstory, that probably means she's not worth much to the ex-Nazi cause. Nevertheless, she's still a niece and cousin of the Rumpelsteigers', and that's all you need to know. _Capisce_?"

"Huh?"

He grasped one of her arms with his good hand, thumb digging into the soft skin of her upper arm. "Casualties are a given in this business, but I won't have you dropping your guard and waving yourself around like a red flag, no matter who you think is some noble soul deep down, or whatever your cockamamie hunches tell you. Do we understand each other here, _Agent_?"

Emma pulled her arm out of his grip. "Understood, you bloody blighter," she snarled back, in an awful imitation of a Cockney accent.

Killian merely fixed her with his usual imperturbable smirk. "Excellent."

* * *

_Hipódromo de Palermo Racetrack_

Her gaze slid stealthily back in Killian's direction. Why on earth was he being so brazen? Emma turned to her quarry, hoping the wide-eyed look she was trying to project hit its mark.

"Dearest, I'm afraid I've run dry. Shall I get us more champagne?"

Bae started to stand. "I can—"

His father reached out, clamping down on Baelthazar's wrist. "When your woman asks to serve you, you damn well let her."

_You have no idea how much I'm _not_ his woman, you old goat_, Emma fumed internally, linking her hands behind her back. She felt like if she didn't, they might drift up and wrap around Rumpelsteiger's neck of their own accord. Instead, all her audience got was a treacly smile. "It's no trouble, Bae," she grit out, turning to go.

"Fetch me some too, eh? There's a good girl," Dr. Whale called out behind her, which she pretended not to hear as she strode away as quickly as possible.

"What in tarnation do you think you're doing?" she muttered out the corner of her mouth, daintily crossing her arms over the railing while staring straight ahead. She had gone to get the champagne first for show. If any of those stooges questioned her absence, she'd just say she'd been accosted by an acquaintance she'd met on the plane coming over.

She could see Killian watching her from the corner of her eye. "That bloody tosser can't keep his hands to himself for a second, can he?" His voice was carefully level, but she could hear the underlying vexation.

She gave what she hoped looked like a casual shrug. "He's to be my fiancé. I've already put off intimacy, but I can't very well deny him everything before we're wed. Then he would _definitely_ throw me off for another."

The penetrating gaze he gave her was unsettling. "I think you underestimate your appeal, in every sense, Swan." He took a vulgarly large swallow of champagne, nearly draining the glass. "Fiancé, then. So you've made up your mind." His fists tightened on the railing.

Emma tried to look like she was having a gay old time, but her tight smile looked like more of a grimace. "Don't be thick. You know I didn't have much say in the matter." She let out a weak laugh. "Haven't told queenie darling yet, though." She took a small sip. "Can I—can I come over later? After I've, well…notified the witch?"

"If you feel the need, darling," he said casually. "If you haven't given in to your young man yet."

Emma slid her foot over, digging her heel into the top of his fancy shoe. "Don't be vile," she said lowly, taking some comfort in the pain etched on his brow. "Are you going to be a gentleman again?" She gave another grind for emphasis, and he nodded imperceptibly. "Good." She released the pressure.

He gave her a sidelong glance, fighting a smile. "You can be quite juvenile. Where'd you get the idea you can get what you want by pulling those schoolyard tactics?"

"I just did," she answered silkily, and Killian grabbed Bae's glass of champagne and took a gulp.

"You _oaf_!"

* * *

"Wasn't that curious, my son?"

"Eh?" Bae turned a glazed expression on his father, annoyed at his attention being pulled from the horses. "What's happened?"

"Your young woman. Coming back now, but she was talking with that debonair gentleman for quite some time," he replied, gesturing at Killian, who was focused back on the race activity, binoculars shielding his face.

"I—I didn't…I'm sure there's nothing odd about it," Bae insisted.

"Has she given you an answer yet?"

"She said she'd tell me after the race."

Rumpelsteiger tsked, clapped a hand down on Bae's shoulder. "You're the man here, _junge_. And you'd better start controlling this fledgling household you're attempting to create. Nothing makes a family go to pieces like the man letting the wife call the shots. Not to mention make his colleagues"—he jerked his head towards Dr. Whale, Ritter, and Bude—"lose all respect for him."

Bae finally gave his father his full attention. "What're you suggesting, father?"

"You'll insist on an answer once she reaches us again. If there's nothing untoward about Miss Blanchard's actions just now, she'll say 'yes'. But women have their wiles…she could drag out this ridiculous engagement for months. That's why you're getting married this Saturday."

"Saturday?! That's impossible, that's—"

"It's not, and you will," Rumpelsteiger returned sharply. "For the reasons I've laid out."

Emma returned to a strangely subdued Bae, his father and their friends watching them surreptitiously. Her brow furrowed. "Sorry I took a bit," she said apologetically, holding out a glass.

Bae's mouth was pressed into a grim line. "Who was that, Emma?"

Dammit. No use feigning puzzlement; Bae wasn't _completely_ feeble-minded. Though going by his smug smirk, Emma would bet his father had something to do with calling her out.

"Oh, ah, that was just a nice man I met on the plane to Argentina. Helped me carry my bags from the gate."

"A somewhat involved-looking discussion for a mere passing acquaintance, Miss Blanchard," Rumpelsteiger piped in. "Why, one might surmise you were old chums. Lovers, even."

Without a second thought, Emma tossed the dregs of her glass right in Rumpelsteiger's face. "I don't take kindly to such insinuations about my character, sir," she forced out, in deceptively placid tones. Inside, she felt like a tornado was swirling through her, making her dizzy. But she was damned if this cunning snake would destroy everything. She hoped she'd played the insulted rich girl card well; it wasn't like she had experience fighting back against verbal abuse. It had been just another hazard of the trade in her old life.

"Don't fret, sweet, he doesn't mean it," Bae said hurriedly, stepping between them. He gave her shoulder a light squeeze. "But—but I really must insist, Emma. I need to know your answer to my proposal. _Now_."

"Now? Why, what's the hurry?"

"If you love me," Bae said, face getting redder, "You'll marry me. Soon. At the courthouse this Saturday. And if not...well, maybe my father isn't as senile as he seems."

* * *

**A/N: As always, I'm so glad for those of you who've encouraged me to continue with this fic-you know who you are. Also, for any of you who're also Tumblrers, question: can you not paste Word text into a post anymore with those stupid updates? I was trying to, and it just kept coming out a big mess. Help!**


	6. Chapter 6

_Just a forewarning: This is possibly the angstiest chapter I've ever written, in **any** work. However, I did really enjoy writing this part the most thus far. OK...on with the show!_

* * *

The metallic index finger had already dug a groove into the small tabletop, but Killian was unrelenting. He stared down at his handiwork, eyelids heavy. "Gonna…gonna drill right true…_through_ you, unnerstan'? Gonna dig—dig me way ta China before—" He let go of the end table, slithering ungracefully down to the floor.

What the devil was the matter with him? Getting blind drunk over a _woman_? Killian Jones wasn't subject to such base reactions. Ever since his handicap had drummed him out of active service, then after—well, he hadn't let another person twist him into such dire straits in a _long_ time. And now, after just a few months, this accursed, fiery blonde wench had _him_—flippant, closed-off Killian Jones—over a barrel. He'd never felt more at loose ends.

A knock at his door barely filtered through his rum-induced haze, and he chose to ignore it. "Mebbe…mebbe there I can open a—open a rice farm…no, no. A rice _diner_. Yeah, yeah, that's the ticket. I'll—"

There was the knocking again, louder this time, with some accompanying talk that Killian didn't put the effort of deciphering into. "Go 'way! Bloody 'ell, what's a man got to do 'round here for a lil' peace and—"

The door suddenly gave way, and from his cozy position nestled sideways on the throw rug, Killian had an uncomparable view of a pair of bright red slingbacks forming into shapely ankles, into shapely calves, into—

Emma shoved him over onto his back with her foot on his shoulder. "Stop trying to look up my skirt, you lout." She raised her head, gave a delicate sniff. "Cripes, is that…you?" She bent over his prone form. "Ugh, it is. You smell like a drunk tank. What the hell have you been getting up to?"

Killian managed to pull himself to his knees; Emma laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Getting' soused off me arse, til you bloody showed up and ruined it. How'd you get in here?"

She planted her hands on her hips. "You forget, Jones—B&amp;E was part of my rap sheet. I'd even say I was damn good at it, except the times I got caught," she said with an embarrassed grin. "So…you want me to go?"

"Good God, yes!"

"Liar." Emma took her hands off her hips, stooped and grabbed him under his arms, making him flinch and yelp. She gave him a sly smile. "Ticklish, hmm? I'll have to remember that."

He squirmed. "Whaddya think yer doing?"

"Getting you into the bathtub," she said, struggling to pull him to a standing position. She tightened her grip around his waist. "No use fighting me off, Jones; I've dealt with worse than you."

Reluctantly, Killian did his best to stumble along with her the few feet into the bathroom, though they moved as though they were participating in a three-legged race.

"Oomph!" Emma braced him against the vanity, bowed her head, and started to undo his buttons, then his brace.

"Yer—_you're_ being quite forward for an engaged woman, Swan."

She stilled just long enough for him to know his comment had found a mark. "Why…why don't we have that conversation later, Killian. Once you've had time to sleep this off."

He let out a loud, scratchy cough. "I shan't sleep anything off. I'm _dying_, can't you see!"

Emma rolled her eyes, and went over to turn on the faucet in the claw-foot tub. "And they say women are the frailer sex."

Once Killian was safely lowered into the lukewarm water, Emma stationed herself in the armchair outside, leaving the bathroom door open—she wanted to make sure he didn't keel over and half-drown himself. She leaned back against the headrest, letting her eyes flutter shut. A part of her wanted to dismiss this whole drunken display as macho bravado. True, he must care for her to _some_ degree at this point…but he also knew where she'd come from. Whatever else he was, it was obvious he hadn't come from a life of hard-knocks. He would never deign to have her—Emma scrubbed a weary hand over her face. Thinking about herself and Killian in any kind of future terms was only going to drive her to melancholy and drink. And neither would do for her assignment, or sanity.

"_Swaaaan_," Killian's sing-song tone carried from the bathroom. "Take mercy, and come dry a fellow off, would you?"

Emma scowled, got up and marched over to the linen closet next to the bathroom door. "Here!" She pitched a towel through the doorway, in the direction of the tub without glancing in. She grinned as she walked back to her chair, hearing his muffled curse. She didn't even get the chance to try and relax again, though, before a pair of bare feet moved into her line of vision,

"_Hook_," she growled, glancing up. "Just what the hell are you doing?"

"Ohhh, so it's 'Hook' in private as well, now? Am I in trouble, darling?"

"I gave you a towel to wrap yourself in, make yourself decent," she replied, her gaze going heavenward. Was he trying to drive her up the wall? She gave a quick peek again; he certainly seemed more sober than he had half an hour ago, though he swayed slightly on the spot and his eyes were heavy-lidded—she couldn't tell if _that_ was from alcohol or lustful intent.

"But I did," Killian gestured towards the turban form on his head before planting both hand and stump on his hips, the rest of him naked as a jaybird. "I didn't think we stood on such formalities anymore."

She let out a tsk as she crossed to him, snapped the towel from his head, and tucked it hurriedly around his waist. "Yes, well…I think it's best we get used to it sooner than later." Emma shifted uncomfortably. "Killian…Baelthazar's insisting I marry him on Saturday—_this _Saturday."

His brows bunched together, a stormy expression descending over his features, but he remained silent as he walked over to his makeshift bar table, reaching for his rum.

"Is rum your solution to everything?" Emma demanded sharply, then in a softer voice, "Killian…please don't. Let's talk instead."

He set the bottle back with an exaggerated effort, and Emma leapt up, sliding an arm around his middle. "But first, rest." She led him to the bed, toeing off her shoes, then set him down and moved a pillow beneath his head while she knelt on the mattress.

"I'm not an infant, woman," Killian protested, yet without trying to stop her. There was something sadly sweet about it all as he let himself be tended to. He couldn't help to not only wonder about the last time she'd done this for anyone, if ever, but also to try—and fail—to remember the last someone had done something similar for him. Certainly, it had to be in the vicinity of sometime over seven years ago now, but he refused to let his mind stray there. He felt Emma move behind him, her breasts warm against his back even through her blouse, and her cheek against his shoulder blade. Her arm wrapped around his front, clasping his fingers snugly in her hand.

"Do you want me to stay?"

His fingers linking with hers was all the answer she needed.

* * *

When Killian awoke, it was dark outside and Emma was still nuzzled into his back, her breathing evened out in contented slumber. He turned slowly in her arms to face her, his good hand smoothing the hair back from her face. Asleep, she looked like she hadn't a care in the world, just like her cover persona. If things were fair in this world, Killian though angrily, she wouldn't have had the life she did, and good people wouldn't die in war—hell, there would _be_ no war—

"Killian?" Emma blinked awake, staring at him curiously, her voice groggy. "Are you alright?"

He stiffened, caught in the act. "No," he grumbled, moving back to prop himself against the headboard. His brain beat painfully in his skull. "No, I'm bloody well not. Was it my intoxicated fever dream, or did you say you're getting married in six days time?"

She moved to sit up as well, laying a hand against his knee. "It can't be helped, Killian. Bae asked, but—but by his tone, I could tell there wasn't room for negotiation. It was agree, or blow the whole operation. And we've…we've come so far already." She looked down, biting her lip as she traced nonsensical patterns along his bare leg. "I suspect that dratted father of his has been putting…ideas into his head. He feels something's off about me, though I can't see where I've given him reason to."

"There was always the risk the old crocodile wouldn't accept you," Killian said hollowly, a desperate tug in the center of his chest unfurling. _You can't let her do this._

"Be that as it may," Emma prattled on, unaware of his distress, "I figured what was the difference, if I was going to be marrying the fiend at some point, in the end."

"Emma, there's—you don't have to do this, lass. I'll—I can find some way—"

"What are my options? Are _you_ going to marry me, Jones? Make a decent woman out of me?" She paused momentarily, her heart seized up with a foolish glimmer of hope—but there was no response. Killian only pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. "No…no, I hadn't thought so." She continued as though she weren't shattering into a million pieces. "Think sensibly. Would a respectable man like yourself ever really, truly take someone…someone like me, who used to steal and give up their body for survival, to tend their home, wear their ring, bear their children? I knew how this would end, Killian. I knew—"

Now he looked up, eyes suspiciously shiny. "Emma, _darling_, please don't. I swear—"

"Yes, yes, you swore one day you'd tell me everything. Well, Killian, it looks like that deadline's been expedited." She propped herself up on an elbow, not taking her eyes off him. "If you…if you care anything for me, you'll tell me everything, no matter how this ends up. What's the harm, really? I could be killed in a few days, a few months—"

He grabbed her upper arms, gave her a shake. "Don't talk like that, Goddammit!"

"Why not," Emma cried out, wriggling in his iron grip. "It's true, I've known it from the start. You've never promised me anything but this, Killian, and I've never pressed you for more. Make good on it, or I'm leaving."

He gave a great sigh, and eased himself horizontal again. If this was all she wanted, surely he could give her this at least, before everything went topsy-turvy. He held out his arm. "Come here, love." Emma moved to settle her head against his chest, hand toying with his thicket of chest hair. "What should you like to know?"

"Everything. How you got to be here, doing this, why you can't—can't bring yourself to feel for me," she said in a small voice. "_Everything_."

Not feel for her? Blasted woman—but that was a whole different conversation. Where to start for now? Killian pushed at the fogginess still edging his consciousness, willed his mind to drift back to unpleasant memories. He was silent for so long, Emma almost looked up to see if he'd fallen back asleep, when his voice startled her.

"About—well, it's been near a decade now—my brother—Liam—and I were both in the British Navy, and entered the War right after Britain declared their intents against the Axis powers in 1939."

Emma started lightly stroking down his arm opposite from her, in what she hoped was a soothing gesture. "I'm listening."

"Liam…well, he was more than a brother, Swan. Our father left when we were young, and once our mother succumbed to illness, he practically raised me." His eyes closed, but he continued. "Being of higher rank, he did his best to get us stationed together whenever possible. Understand, lass—I was young and foolish during all this. The Jones brothers, going off on adventures and bringing peace and prosperity to tumultuous regions." His arm around her clenched. "I was an imbecile."

She looked quickly up, then back down, not wanting to break his rhythm. Emma got the feeling if she spoke, the spell would be broken and he'd clam up again, this time forever.

"Near about two years into my enlistment, I met a girl whilst on shore leave. Don't fret, love, this is all relevant," he continued, tone turned mocking, though Emma gathered it was directed more at himself, and his perceived past naïveté, than at her.

"She was beautiful, vibrant, looked at me like I was some bloody hero…and I ate it all up. We were immature, but still…we were in love. Her name was Milah."

_Were? Was?_ Emma's hand quit stroking without her notice. She hoped, she really hoped this wasn't headed where she thought it—

"Anyways," he went on brusquely, "Late 1942, Liam and I were stationed together, as always. We were fighting along the Norwegian coast, when—when a U-boat torpedoed us. The entire bloody ship sank."

"And your—your brother?" Emma blurted out, letting out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

"Liam went the way most of our crew that day did. There were only two other survivors besides myself—and look, Swan, I've even got a souvenir," he snarled, hoisting his stumped arm up briefly.

She clutched him tighter. "Holy hell."

"That's one way of putting it. But I still thought things weren't completely hopeless—I was still in love with a wonderful woman, if you recall. Helped with my rehabilitation, first suggested MI6 when I was grumbling about feeling useless. And then—well, I asked her if she'd like to enter into an engagement with me, Swan." Another long pause. "She said yes."

Emma squeezed her eyes shut. Her hunch was right; this was definitely going nowhere positive.

"We decided we'd wait to wed til after the war. Meanwhile, MI6 lost no time utilizing me whichever way they could, and I decided it was best if Milah went back to stay with her family while I was away on assignment. I didn't like the idea of her being left alone for such long stretches."

"And you—you drifted apart?"

He barked out a humorless laugh. "For all you've been through, you can still be quite the tireless little optimist, Swan. No, we did no such thing. She was out on a drive with her mother, and pulled over when an airfight began some distance ahead of them—for _safety_." There was that bone-chilling chortle again. "The German plane was going down, firing wildly. Apparently…apparently some rogue shrapnel pierced their windshield. Her mother got her to the hospital, but—but it was already over."

Emma sat up now, unable to keep passively listening. "Oh, my…_stars_, Killian," she gasped, not really knowing what else to say to something like that. She balanced back on her heels, but he refused to meet her eyes, keeping his firmly fixed on his towel-covered lap.

"Her family blamed me for sending her back—"

"That's ludicrous!" Emma exploded. "How could you have known—"

"I couldn't've, Emma, but the point is, I did. And I was, fairly, cut of from those I thought I'd be linked to through marriage. A substitute family, I suppose, was what I thought they'd be, after losing Liam. But I got what I deserved—nothing."

"That's not fair!" Emma continued heatedly. "There was nothing fair about it! The war—I'm sure emotions were high. I can't even imagine how it was for those in the thick of it." She cupped a hand over his knee. "Of course they were devastated. But that doesn't mean they were right to take it out on you." When he still refused to meet her gaze, she leaned over and threw her leg over him to sit squarely in the middle of his lap. "_Look_ at me, Jones." He finally did, as she'd all but given him no choice. Her hands slid up his shoulders. "You're fair…and noble…and just—just plain _good_."

"How can you even say that, Swan?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm a demon. I've cheated death via the ones closest to me, and now I'm just some—some bloody automaton out to bring glory and protection to the crown, without giving a toss about anything else. And that includes myself."

Emma tilted his head back, her hands absently stroking his scruffy cheeks. "Maybe—maybe I can care enough for us both. Until you realize you didn't have anything to do with those tragedies, at least."

His eyes shone bright in the dark room. "Why're you so good to me, lass? What've I done to—"

"_Because_, Killian." Emma gulped around the lump in her throat. "Because you've been the first person in a long time, maybe even my whole life, who saw all that I was and still treated me like—like a _human being_." She pressed a finger over his lips as they parted. "I'm not done. You—you may think you're some cold, unfeeling machine, but"—she pressed her hand firmly over the left side of his chest—"I've seen your heart. And I haven't found it lacking."

"Gods, Emma," Killian groaned, his good hand coming up to tangle in her hair, bringing her head down to him, while his stumped arm curved around her back. "You don't know how much I need you," he murmured, his lips closing over hers.

* * *

Killian felt the heat from her hand on his chest spread outward, along his limbs and down to his groin. The Swan girl thought _he_ was good? Thought _he_ didn't have a heart blackened by regret and death? His mind was too much of a whirlpool at the moment to debate the truth of it all; all that mattered was what Emma perceived. Plus, she was sitting on top of his barely-clothed self, arms around his shoulders, kissing him in such a deep, all-consuming fashion, he thought he very well may pass out.

"_Emma_," he warned, hands sliding down to grip her hips tightly. "If you continue this wanton behavior, you don't stand a snowball's chance in Hades of leaving here without me having completely _ruined_ you for that prat you're marrying."

Her lips left his neck with a wet, suctioned _pop_ that made him shudder, her red nails scratching softly along his jawline. "Did you even guess, Jones, that maybe that's what I want? That maybe I need the visual of you hovering above me, kissing everywhere you can reach? Or that I need the memory of you wrapping my legs around your waist, when I rode you until we were both too spent to move? Or sliding into—"

"Damn you, Swan," he growled, rearing up suddenly and flipping her on her back. He balanced himself unsteadily, his good hand planted next to her head, blue eyes burning into hers like dry ice. "You're a bloody torment."

Emma held onto his shoulders with trembling fingers. This was a rotten, bad idea—no matter the reason, she was binding herself to another man at the end of the week, hadn't brought her diaphragm—fuck, things had been so much easier when she thought any show of sentiment in these little tête-á-têtes was all from her side, and any show of emotion on Killian's part was only her own hopeful delusion. There'd never been a reason to think Killian would be any different— he was a man, and men always disappointed. And now, right before things were all going to hell in a handbasket, he was falling apart over _her_? Though she did feel some vindication in finally knowing that _whatever_ this was went both ways, the idiot had ragingly awful timing. Emma was beyond peeved with herself, that she couldn't resist the pull of this man, this one blasted man. She hadn't let a man get under her skin in nearly a decade, and that time she'd wound up—no, she couldn't think about it. Somehow, over the past couple months, Killian had proved himself a different sort—he looked at her now the same way he had the first time they'd met: like she was the sun, and he wasn't afraid of getting burned.

Emma slid her hands up his chest til she cupped his neck, raised her legs slowly until her feet were level with his waist, and pushed the towel down. Killian sucked in a breath harshly. "I'm not putting you on, Killian," she insisted lowly. "I mean it. And it's not just the sex. I think…I think even if we'd met under other circumstances, in another place, another time…I'd choose you."

That seemed to be all the encouragement needed to snap the last remnants of Killian's self-control; with a strangled-sounding moan, his mouth fastening onto her neck while his hand slid up her skirt. Emma let her head drop back, closing her eyes while she twisted her hand behind her back to yank on her zipper, kicking it off her legs. Within moments, between the both of them, they'd managed to half-pull, half- tear off her remaining garments and twine together again. The skin-on-skin contact felt so good, Emma felt her eyes start to well up; the touch of his hands on her, and him beneath hers, had the sweet familiarity of two people who knew each other intimately while also carrying that spark of excitement that always made her feel like her heart had skipped a few beats. It had been months—would a spark like that wear off over time? She guessed she'd probably never find out, and that thought had her pulling him forward by her hands on each side of his face, and kissing him fiercely.

"Simmer down, Swan," he chuckled, once she'd allowed him a breath. "This isn't your last meal before the guillotine."

Emma snorted in spite of herself; how the hell could he joke at a time like this?! He didn't know that…. Plus, she thought they'd had quite enough talking for the night. She ran one hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, clenching it in her fist. "Make…make love to me, Killian. Even if—listen, can we just…pretend this once? For me?"

His mouth thinned into a hard line, and without a word, he thrust forward sharply to the hilt, and Emma yelped in surprise. "You asked for it, Swan," he grumbled into her throat, as he started to move insistently, not giving her time to adjust. "I hope you can handle it."

"Maybe—_goddamn_," she gasped raggedly. "Maybe _you're_ the one who can't handle it."

"Defiant as always," he commented, voice husky. His hand splayed across her back, pushing her chest up for his mouth to pay exquisite attention to her breasts. His tongue swirled around one, teeth applying a gentle pressure on her nipple, while his hand rose up to play with the other before he switched. She did her best to give as good as she got, but she felt like a seagull being tossed around in a tempest; every time she tried to drive her hips upwards, she was met with another forceful jerk of his that had her practically seeing stars. His mouth and hand roaming over every inch of her, while being inside of her at the same time, was sensory overload. After awhile, it was all Emma could do to just hold on. This was far from their first experience, which had been a lighthearted building-up into the heat of the moment. Now, she could tell some of her misgivings were starting to wear on him by the furious desperation with which he drove into her—maybe he _was_ starting to entertain her concerns that this could be the last time in a very long while. Emma's panting grew heavier, both hands fisting in his hair. Was this what love was like? She'd never had anyone, save for an occasional john in the heat of the moment, tell her they loved her. Well, if it wasn't love, she couldn't imagine the real thing was very different.

"Lass, I'm close" Killian's tone was higher-pitched, taut. He reached down to press his thumb to her clit, making her thighs start to quake. "Emma, darling, say it. _Tell _me."

_Say what—'I love you'?_ There was no way she could bring herself to; that was what people who had never said it before said, when they were never going to see each other again, in the pictures.

"I—_I can't_," she said jerkily, it coming out in a half-sob as her orgasm started to spark along her nerves, blurring the edges of her vision. Her nails scraped his back, red lines appearing in their wake. "Please, Killian, I—"

"Bloody fucking gods, Swan!" he roared, rearing up, his arms wrapping around her waist tightly as he spilled into her.

* * *

**A/N: Just think of this as prep for things to come :) Hope you enjoyed it, nevertheless.**

**Ooops, I can't believe I forgot when I posted yesterday, but I added another movie trivia bit into this chapter: the description of Milah's death. Anyone know which 1942 film that was from? That's the only clue I'm giving!**


	7. Chapter 7

It was a good thing the cream pillbox hat included a short veil that just brushed the bridge of her nose, because though Emma had a hard smile frozen onto her face, she was sure her eyes would give away everything if the Rumpelsteigers had an unobstructed view. She could feel her angry squint, and a twitch starting to develop in the right one.

"Nervous?" a soft voice from behind and to her right murmured, a cool slide of silk lightly cupping her elbow. Emma glanced down blearily at the ice-blue glove. "Are you quite all right?"

All right? Nothing would ever be 'all right' again. She'd had that brief window, a glimpse of how things could've been if she'd been different, if the world was different, if Kil— But that was a dead-end subject now, and she'd do best to remember that. The more frivolous annoyances of the day included her wedding garb. Though it was tame by typical standards due to the venue and hasty timeframe of the ceremony, she still felt like a trussed-up Christmas goose, with the small explosion of lace, pearls, and gardenias on the back of her hat, cream lace across her shoulders, and the matching gloves. Emma looked over her shoulder, willing her lips to quirk up for Elsa's sake. "Of course, _Cousin_. Why would you think otherwise?"

"You've got a tremble going, all over. Are you cold, then? We can ask the magistrate—"

"Honestly, I'd just like to get this over and done with," she said in a rush, nearly clasping her hand over her mouth right after, darting a glance at Elsa in horror. But the other woman only had an amused smirk and a crinkling at the corners of her eyes.

"I shan't pretend like I know how it is to wed," she trilled out in her soft accent, "But…I imagine, as with all first-time experiences, it can be discombobulating." She gave Emma's elbow a delicate squeeze as the small courtroom's doors swung open, and the Rumpelsteigers strode up the aisle. "I'll ensure you get the necessary glasses of champagne in the aftermath."

"Thank you," Emma whispered, before facing forward, giving a slight wince when her thighs rubbed together. Killian hadn't been fooling when he said he'd ruin her for Bae, though Emma suspected she'd been ruined for all future men the first time she'd simply laid eyes on him.

"Baby-doll?" Emma looked up with a start to see Bae looking expectant, and his father scowling at her—though that wasn't unusual.

"Eh?" she blurted out eloquently. Elsa gave her a nudge in the ribs. "It's about to start, duckling."

Emma smiled blankly, holding her hands out for Bae to take her fingertips as the judge approached them. She willed herself to keep at least some focus on the proceedings, though honestly the whole sham of a wedding was the furthest thing from her mind, which felt like it was whirling about on the spin cycle. _Duckling… Swan? Is there some corroboration there—does Elsa know about me? Does she care? Should I ask Killian when I see him later? And what does he want to ask me in the first place?_

First she would need to finagle her way out of the wedding brunch. But Emma Blanchard never went into anything without a plan.

* * *

_2 Days Earlier_

"Swan?" Killian's greeting crackled over the phone line.

"Hook," Emma returned, stretching the cord out as she went to sit at her dressing table. At least with this ridiculously rushed wedding, Bae had obliged her in allowing more time for Emma to put the house affairs in order before she moved in with the Rumpelsteigers. The longer it took, the better, as far as she was concerned. Though she did wonder how Killian would let her know when the powers-that-be wanted to meet once she was within the fold. She was sure phone calls and the post were out—would he dress up as the milkman? Did mansions even _have_ milkmen? A muffled snort of laughter carried past her hand clamped over her mouth.

"Have I said something amusing already, Swan?"

"No…no. Just imagining you in a milkman's uniform."

"That so? You're quite the odd one, Beautiful."

She smiled faintly at the moniker, before clearing her throat gruffly. _You're all business, Emma. Get it done_.

"I take it you need us to meet soon?"

"You assume correctly, love. Tomorrow's a bit soon, but the day after—oh…I apologize. I forgot. Your wedding day, isn't it?" he asked, his tone dripping acid.

Emma's grip on the receiver tightened. "You know very well it is. _But_, I'll still make the meeting that day." She told herself she just wanted to see this thing through as quickly and efficiently as possible, but truthfully, she missed Killian. She wanted to see in his face that everything would turn out on their side. Even if this damned marriage helped the mission, she could already hear in his voice the rift it was starting to drive between them.

"How on earth do you propose to squirm your way out of a post-wedding…er, whatever that bastard has planned?"

"Don't bother your lusciously-maned head about it, Hook. Just give me the spot."

"Very well then," he said, and she could practically see the smirk on his face. "I applaud whichever devious means you have at your disposal. Parque Centenario, two o'clock," he said brusquely, then hung up with a sharp clap.

"Pompous ass," Emma snapped, clanging the earpiece into the cradle. She didn't know how she'd get the Rumpelsteigers out of the way, but she had always been a champion at figuring things out in the 11th hour.

And then the answer practically fell in her lap.

"Meesus?" Emma spun around to see Anna's coppery head poking around the doorway. "Is aught the mattah?"

Emma ran a hand wearily through her tangled coif. "It's…it's nothing. Just wedding jitters, I suppose. And the moving—I can't say I'm that thrilled about it."

Anna stepped into the room, arms folded across her middle, nodding and making little _harumphs_ of agreement. She gently steered Emma by the shoulders to face her mirror, and picked up the hairbrush, starting to undo the knots Emma's fussing had created. "You's in a quandary, Meesus, but I think it is more the man than the event." The younger woman's nose scrunched up in her barely concealed dislike. "Someone like you is not for the likes of him."

God, Emma thought miserably, even the maid could tell she was some lowly guttersnipe thrust into decent surroundings that didn't fit. "S—so, you believe—"

"I believe you's the most refined lady I've ever served," Anna finished, giving her a bright grin.

"Why, Anna," Emma smiled, relief washing over her. "I think you're implying you don't care for the Golds."

"Not a bit," Anna said stoutly, then clapped both hands to her mouth, eyes wide. "Apologies, Meesus! Please, I'm—"

"No apology necessary," Emma said, slumping down in the seat. "I'm a bit unsure of my own feelings of late."

"_Ah_," Anna said, ceasing her ministrations, leaning back to catch Emma's eye in the mirror. "You're nervous. Of course, a well-bred lady like you is worried about the—the wedding night." She raised a brow, swayed her hips slightly like in one of those shorts on the South Pacific that had played before the feature pictures Emma had snuck into as a girl.

Well, _this_ was unexpected; of all the things to think her unknowledgeable about. "_Pardon_?" Emma whipped around. "Anna, really, that isn't the—"

"You just need more time, to get used to the thought of that…that—that beastly man, writhing—grabbing—" Anna's hands squeezed into fists around the hairbrush, and she glared down at them as though she were strangling someone, obviously caught up in her spiel, "—that sweating, horrid—"

"_Anna_!" Emma snapped her fingers in front of the other woman's face. "That'll do, thank you."

"Oh!" Anna looked up with a start, glancing around like she'd forgotten where she was. Her hands fell to her sides. "Begging your pardon, Meesus. I mean—that is—the point I was trying to make—" She darted out of the room quickly, and back in within seconds. "I've got something for you, in case you'd like to give the matter…more time." She took a small, unlabeled brown bottle out of her apron pocket, and closed Emma's fingers around it.

Emma turned it around, inspecting it. "What the hell is this for, Anna?"

A sly smile played over Anna's lips. "It's called ipecac, Meesus Blanchard. I've heard women use it days before fancy occasions, to ensure they fit into their garment." She went on hurriedly when she saw Emma's mouth drop open. "It can also make someone horribly ill for a day, or several days, depending on the administrations. Depending on how long one may like to…have their alone time." She walked to the door, turned back. "I'd say a drop should do, unless you –well, you're _not_ thinking about something more permanent, are you, Meesus?"

"Of course not!"

"One drop then," Anna reiterated, holding up a single finger. "And I may suggest sitting well on the other side of the dining table."

* * *

_CIA Headquarters, Buenos Aires_

_Present_

"Can this wait, Mills? I've got a meet-up with Swan in a few, so—"

"Sit down, Hook," Regina said flatly, not looking up from whatever notes she was making. Naturally at that, Killian simply leaned back against the wall, arms folded.

She looked up, eyes narrowing at his defiance, then linked her fingers together. "Any progress on the front lines?"

"I turned in my weekly report, same as everyone, love. You need something from it, go through the files, but I won't—"

"I highly doubt you'd note anything down that paints your precious femme fatale in an unflattering light. But I want the straight dope, Jones, and now. Is Blanchard wasting our time over there?"

Killian rolled his eyes heavenward. "She's done everything you ponces have demanded, yet you're still questioning her motives? She wants this done, as do we all, and to be on her way disappearing into the overpopulated mire that is the good 'ol U.S. of A."

Regina squinted at him, and he did his best not to squirm like a naughty child under her X-ray gaze. "Is she going through with the marriage today?"

Killian hoped his shrug looked casual enough. "I imagine so. And if not, I'll let her know that you send your _sternest_ reproaches." He crossed, then uncrossed his ankles, and slid his hand and prosthesis into his pockets. Only when his smirk wavered at the corner did he know he was done for; the old witch's face lit up with malicious joy.

"Oh, you don't just _like_ her! Sake's alive, you've been fucking that sow!" Regina exclaimed gleefully. "Or should I say, _were_, isn't that right? Well, I never thought I'd see the day when—"

Killian crossed the room in two long strides, and placed his palms flat on her desk, fingertips curling into the wood until they stung. Better there than her neck.

"I've never struck a woman, Agent Mills, but there was a point in my life that I hadn't put a bullet through a man's skull, either. Watch. Your. Tongue."

"Well," Regina, miffed, turned to face away from him, fussing with a paperclip. "I'm sure she knows all manners of tricks to make men think they're her one-and-only. Even you fell for it, while she's out there, probably making good use of Rumpelsteiger's son this very—"

Killian felt his jaw twitch; he couldn't help it, but worked on keeping his voice level. "Jealous, Mills?"

She let out a high, fake-sounding tinkle of a laugh. "Of what? That I'm not the one who has to serve myself up like a Thanksgiving turkey to a known war criminal? Or that I wasn't the one who let the infamous playboy spook, Killian Jones, take a whack at me? Are you _that_ conceited?"

Killian let out an authentic chuckle. "Oh, I _know_ I'm conceited, madam. But I still think you're jealous."

He leaned in, gave the conniving wench a condescending, harder-than-necessary pat on the cheek, then slammed out of the office before any kind of retribution came his way. He hustled down the street towards the park, jamming his hat on as he went. _Why_ was that bitter old harpy getting under his skin _now_? He'd always been able to brush her off before. She didn't know a damn thing about Emma, not a _damn_ thing, except what was in black-and-white for any Joe Schmo at the organization to peruse. And that wasn't even half of the woman he knew.

But he couldn't deny that the witch had, at least this time, simply brought some unpleasant facts that he'd tried not to muse on to the forefront of his mind. If Emma wanted everything to keep running smoothly—and he knew she did—she'd do whatever was needed. And he had to allow it. It wasn't her fault, but it still made something hot and uncomfortable sear through his chest. Killian Jones was cool as a cucumber; he didn't _get_ jealous. Never had, never would.

He rubbed a weary hand down his unshaven face, and gave a murderous glance back at Headquarters.

Bloody, rotten _bitch_.

* * *

"So you _did_ manage to scurry away. I should never have doubted your abilities, Swan," Killian said in a very faux-jovial tone, clasping his hand and prosthesis together while he stared straight ahead.

"I didn't think you ever had," Emma murmured back, sitting about two feet from him on the same bench. "Or was all that praise just to get into my unmentionables?" She smirked when his jaw clenched; he'd been acting like an aloof prat ever since she'd arrived, and it was grating on her already sensitized nerves.

"I'm sure you looked like a vision, in all your finery. Did the great lug appreciate it, at least? And I _am _curious—how did you manage to elude him today, of all days?"

Emma's grip tightened around her pocketbook. "Suffice to say, he'll be incapacitated for a good while."

"_Really_, now?" Killian gave a very pointed glance down towards her hem. "Well, I knew you were good, Swan, I guess I just didn't know _how_—"

"If you only called me out to insinuate crass goings-on, _Hook_, I don't really see the merit of continuing this conversation. Quit busting my chops and get to the damned point, or send an agent who doesn't hold something against me that I had no control over."

At least he had the decency to looked a bit chastened at that. He focused on the ground, rubbed the back of his neck. "Right. To—to the point, then. Have you been granted access to the manor's ins and outs?"

"Keys, you mean? Well, to the main door, and my boudoir, and—"

"That's it?"

Emma let out a huff. "Good lord, Killian, I've been married less than a day. What'd you expect?"

"We know whatever the Golds are tinkering with, it's somewhere in that house. And," he continued, turning halfway towards her, "as the new lady-of-the-abode, we're tasking you with finding out just _where_ our attentions should be focused."

"So," Emma sat back, cogs turning. "I'll just ask for greater access to the manor's hidey-holes and such. Whatever he—_they_—refuse to grant me entry to, I'll report back to you."

"More than that, love," said Killian. "'Fraid your hands will be getting a bit dirty on this one. Ah—has Rumpel Junior made any mention of a honeymoon getaway?"

Emma scowled at him. "What's _that_ got to do with any of this?"

"_Has _he, Swan?"

She folded her hands primly in her lap. "He hasn't made mention of it, no."

"Jolly good, because you're going to make a suggestion. A blow-out reception party, complete with lengthy guest list, in lieu of a romantic retreat."

She snorted. "I haven't expressed any interest in parties before—those dinners don't count. So what's my reasoning for suddenly wanting to get decked out and waltz into the wee hours?"

"Say you're itching for some black-tie antics to celebrate your nuptials, I don't bloody know!" he burst out, before looking around and lowering his voice. "You've got the power of persuasion with that meatball you're married to—use it."

She couldn't believe this baloney—the Elsa questions could wait. "I've never planned a shindig in my life. What am I supposed to do?!"

"That's the beauty of being an idle member of the upper class," he explained mockingly. "You make the suggestion, and the poor servants arrange everything. All you have to do is show up and look like your usual alluring self."

Emma glared at him, not caring for this new, smarmy attitude at all. She gave a snort. "I've been anything but idle, you stupid lummox. I'm on my guard constantly. That goon gropes me incessantly. And, my face feels ready to crack from fake-smiling so much."

"A casualty of the trade, darling, a casualty of the trade."

"And what'll _you_ be doing while I'm co-hosting this extravagant affair? Playing tiddlywinks at the head office?"

Killian shot her a humorless smile. "Why, I'll be there, too, lass."

* * *

_He must be mad_, Emma thought as she trudged up the main staircase, _Or have a death wish_. Did Killian really think he could slip into a Rumpelsteiger affair and go unnoticed under the elder one's keen eye? Or their beady-eyed associates? Even if he did, he then presumed the two of them could steal away in the midst of all the commotion to investigate whatever holdings the ex-Nazis were keeping hidden—via whichever key fit to the elusive room, or rooms. Which, somehow, Emma was supposed to filch for the evening without being found out. It sounded completely harebrained to her, but she couldn't help the little livewire sparking through her insides—to hell with the past months' buildup and this marriage nonsense; this was _real_ espionage now! Everything she'd ever seen in the pictures, or read at the library, had nothing on the kind of hesitant thrill that this real situation incited. And as a bonus, she and Killian could be in cahoots again, and hopefully he'd stop giving her grief over this marriage drivel.

She crept over to Bae's bedchamber, and cracked open the door. There was a covered mass on the full bed closest to her, which could only be him, no doubt knocked out from the exhaustion of emptying his stomach contents repeatedly throughout the day. Her own stomach gave a lurch at the sight of the other bed, neatly made up and waiting for its new resident—herself. Emma swallowed slowly, reminded herself that this whole arrangement was temporary, and tiptoed over to Bae's huddled form. She skipped her fingers along his arm. "Wake up, dear."

A low grunt, then a moan was all the answer she got, before he turned over to settle back in. Emma leaned in, and gave a hard twist to the soft section on his bare underarm. "Wake up, _dear_!"

He let out a low whine, not having the vigor for a louder exclamation. "What…? Emma?" He blinked at her, eyes unfocused. "Sorry, pet, of course…wedding night…you wanted to perform your wifely duty. C'mere, then." He reached out weakly for her, the faint stench of vomit wafting from him.

_Ugh_. She rocked back on her heels. "When you've regained your strength, of course, and not a moment sooner." She gave his clammy face a light pat. "It's for your own good."

He tipped back into the pillows. "Yes…you're right…of course…."

"Actually, darling, I've come to make a request of you."

"Anything, my dove. Whatever you want, I'll endeavor my best to make it happen."

_Your unconditional surrender? A march to the hangman's noose?_ Emma cleared her throat. "Well…we had such a rushed little start to our life together, and what with you falling ill and all…."

"No need to mince words with me, pet. What does your little heart desire?"

_Someone who's not you._ "I'd like a reception to our wedding, one fit for—for the likes of your—_our_—family," she said, hoping to appeal to his conceit. "A true blow-out: black tie, the high society of Buenos Aires... Perhaps next Saturday?"

"A great party?" His eyes lit up slightly. "Now that's the spirit, pet! I'll have to notify Pa—Father, naturally, but I'm sure he won't mind some festivities." He cupped her cheek. "He's not as austere as he seems."

_Oh no, he's far worse than that_. "I also think—that is, that we should—postpone the—the consummation til then, as well."

His face fell almost comically fast. "But, _Emma_, my _sweet_—"

She stood up suddenly, crossing her arms and fixing him with the sternest stare she could muster. "Now, _Bae_. You're the one who insisted on this rushed affair. I'm sure the stress of it is what made you sick today. The rest of all this wedding merriment will follow at a _much_ more leisurely pace—for your own good, natch—naturally." She clung to a small nugget of hope: that she and Killian would find whatever they needed the night of the party, and that he'd whisk her away posthaste directly afterwards—before Baelthazar had had his chance to have his way with her.

The lines at the corners of Bae's eyes and mouth began to tighten. God, she was pushing her luck; if he had his usual control of his faculties, she wouldn't have been surprised if he'd slapped her for her assumptive airs by now. Emma reached out to lay a placating hand on his shoulder. "I'd never forgive myself if I pushed your recovery too fast. You _do_ want to enjoy the gala, don't you?"

To her relief, he only let out a long sigh, and covered the hand on his shoulder. His wrinkles relaxed. "Always wanting the best for me. I'm sorry, pet, I shouldn't have doubted you. I—I'll make do for another week."

"So patient," Emma murmured, glad he couldn't see her eye roll in the near-dark. She straightened back up after giving a final pat, crossed to the door. "Get plenty of rest. Oh! Darling?"

"Yes?"

"As lady of the manor, I think I'll need to have access to all of the…the bathrooms, and storage, and such. Can that be arranged?"

"I'll have Glass take you around the digs tomorrow. And have spares made."

"You're too kind, husband."

* * *

Apparently there wasn't anything in this dump that couldn't _not_ go through Rumpel Senior first, Emma thought, hovering around the study door and listening to father and son's voices arguing for nearly half an hour. Finally, Rumpelsteiger stepped out, gave her a disdainful look, and motioned for Glass, the house's haughty French butler, to hurry over. "You know what the lady needs, man. Be efficient, and keep out of the rest of the staff's way." He walked onward without a departing goodbye for Emma.

For the better part of an afternoon, Emma fluttered around the various floors and rooms, hoping she was just giving off the air of an innocently curious new occupant. Dead end after dead end followed; she hadn't been held back or denied entry to anywhere yet. Mostly her queries turned out to be smaller washrooms, linen closets, guest bedrooms. Once Glass informed her there was nothing more to see, she could feel the tension ease from her shoulders. She was actually relieved; those twats couldn't say she hadn't given it the old college try. Maybe she could make it out to town within the next couple days to give Killian (or maybe just direct to Headquarters, with the way he'd been behaving) a ring, have them extricate her, and before she knew it, she'd be flying away with—

"What's that?" Emma asked Glass. In her daydreams, she'd continued to follow him down a short set of stone steps off the kitchen after he'd headed towards a small door to the outside for a smoke. He turned, looking surprised to still see her there, and glanced at the heavy wood door on his left.

"The wine cellar, ma'am," he said, about to walk away again as though it were of no importance, but she grabbed his sleeve.

Emma could feel her gut dropping, but raised her chin imperiously, challenging him to defy her. "And? When can we have a look at it?"

He regarded her coolly. "I'm afraid only the elder Mr. Gold has the key to this one," he said, rapping a knuckle against the oak for emphasis. "But don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Gold…besides the several bottles of '34 Haut Brion, there's nothing of note in here."

* * *

**A/N: Much thanks to Lifeinthewoods, who pushed me through the rut I was in with this chapter. They're up for a CS Fic Award in the Humor category on Tumblr, &amp; I encourage you to go give it a vote.**


	8. Chapter 8

Thankfully, it seemed that the entire household, even its patriarch, had gotten caught up in everything the first blow-out the mansion had ever seen entailed. Emma bustled around too, mostly trying to look busy, while she tried to keep tabs on Rumpelsteiger, while avoiding Bae and their cronies. She kept in mind not to get close enough for suspicion though, and wanted to kick the wall in sheer vexation everytime he hustled into the wine cellar and firmly shut the door. Following the old goat around had revealed another interesting tidbit, though: Whale seemed to be the only other person allowed in the cellar, and though she'd seen him enter plenty of times during the week, rarely did she see him leave. Granted, she couldn't just prop herself within view of the door for hours on end, but she _did_ try to take on duties that would continuously have her going past it, and either Whale was a certified, Rumpelsteiger-enabled wino, or there was another passage out of the house via that cellar. _But whatever for_, she mused, before mentally filing it away as just another tidbit to bring up to Killian if she got the chance.

It hadn't been the most uplifting of weeks; she'd made a quick call to Killian from a public phone, and told him that she'd found the spot to focus their efforts towards during the upcoming party. Her possible—no, _eventual_, she _had_ to think of it like that—extrication now seemed much further away. She'd also finally had to give up her bungalow, and thus, her independence from the Rumpelsteigers. And with the house went the servants. Emma had never been too certain what exactly Anna or the chauffeur knew, if anything, about her or why she had suddenly shown up in Argentina, or if they even knew who had hired them. And naturally, she hadn't asked— that would have been completely foolhardy, no matter how innocent Anna seemed. Before the CIA and MI6 powers-that-be made arrangements to reclaim her lodgings, she had thought about asking if Anna could accompany her to the manor. It would have been nice to have a friendly face with her, not to mention one that despised the Rumpelsteigers as much as she. But only a day or so after she'd decided to inquire about it, Baelthazar had shown up to take her out for the day, and had taken his irritation that her packing wasn't as far along as he'd have liked, out on Anna. The poor girl had merely peeked into the living room and asked if anyone would care for coffee, and Bae had stormed up to her, backhanding her across the face so hard, she fell to the ground.

"Do you make it a habit of interrupting your employers' husbands in mid-sentence, Maid?" he'd shouted, as she'd cowered below him, a hand to her burning cheek. He raised his hand again. "Do you think—"

Emma had stormed forward to plant herself between them, grabbing his wrist tightly, teeth clenched. "Whatever you think of my housekeeper's manners, Baelthazar, this is still _my_ house, and she's _my_ employee. If anyone disciplines my help, it'll be me." Not that she ever had or would, much less physically. He had glared at her, but luckily, that was the only reaction she received.

After that, she'd told him to leave for the day and let her continue packing in peace, then rushed to help Anna ice her swollen face. In light of things, she'd decided against asking if the girl could come along to the mansion with her; Emma would have to watch her own back already—she would not put a patsy in front of those beasts to be abused in kind. It had been selfish to even contemplate it. Bae had never gotten violent with her, but after that display—not to mention her knowledge of his wartime activities—Emma knew he was more than capable. She decided not to mention the incident; no cajoling by the CIA would have her accepting a man's force against her ever again. Her cover be damned, if he—or any of the escapees—tried a stunt like that with her, she'd claw their eyes out. Now only a few days later, she found herself fully moved in, with no real amiable company except for Elsa. But true to Killian's request, she kept her words guarded around the other woman.

Emma frowned at her tousled hair; she was missing Anna's help with her routine tasks already. She hadn't been able to bring herself to ask the tight-lipped, bulldog-faced, most likely (in her mind) ex-Nazi hausfrau to do her hair. She wriggled herself into the tight, shimmering emerald dress, adjusting the cuffs of the long sleeves. There was a low V in front, with a matching cut in the back. Understated enough for the new woman of the house, but still eye-catching—though there was only one approving eye she sought tonight. She didn't give a damn what her newly minted husband, his father, or their leering band of apes thought of her. She folded her hands tightly on the vanity to compose herself; no one could afford to have her falling apart now—all she had to do was keep up the act for, hopefully, another day or so. Whatever was of interest in the cellar, Killian _would_ find, and she gave herself a reassuring nod in the mirror.

Once her matching emerald earrings and pendant were in place, she strode to the window and pulled back a small corner of it. Good, Bae was down on the terrace, instructing the servants where to move the small iron benches and patio tables scattered around the yard. Now all she had to do was make sure Rumpelsteiger was otherwise occupied himself; it would have raised too much commotion to have the key missing days before the party, or even a few hours—there would've been a household-wide panic if the libations had been trapped in the cellar, and the key's whereabouts unknown. But Emma had seen Glass starting to arrange the champagne and white wine in the tubs of ice about twenty minutes prior, and there was already a decent stock of reds behind the main bar in the ballroom. Leaving her shoes in her room, she slid silently along the tiles across the second floor, to the furthest side where Rumpelsteiger's bedroom was. She knocked loudly on the elaborately paneled door, which wasn't answered, then repeated it a second time with the same result. She then gave the knob a firm, slow twist, careful not to noisily jiggle it. _Locked_. Emma smirked; like that would keep her out. She doubted that, despite his precautions with the cellar's contents, Rumpelsteiger had taken an ex-burglar daughter-in-law into account. She extracted two bobby pins from the updo she had finally managed—would have to repeat _that _process all over again now—and inserted both into the keyhole, gently maneuvering both points together within the mechanism, and hoped that the past few months hadn't made her skills rusty.

"It's all about the tumblers," she murmured by way of a pep talk, biting back a sigh of relief when she heard the telltale _click_.

Once Emma had closed the door behind her, her eyes widened in panic; what if he'd taken the keys with him, wherever he'd gone? He didn't really need them for anything if he was just puttering about before the party began, but she was dealing with a plainly paranoid, dangerous man. "Godammit," she growled when she didn't see anything on the desk or bureau surfaces, and their drawers didn't turn up the keys, either. Her eyes scanned the room, a palm pressed against her forehead. _Think, Emma, think…you stole from foster parents and the matrons' bedrooms…where would this cretin hide his master keys_? She leaned back against the wardrobe, rifling mentally through past scenarios. Rumpelsteiger probably wasn't _en guard_ yet, but once the house was full of people, he'd definitely be carrying the set around. He hadn't left them in any obvious location. So logical sense dictated…Emma spun around and threw open the wardrobe, hoping the man didn't have an abundance of formalwear. She grinned when she saw only three tuxedos, and began rifling through the pockets, finding the ring in the second, standard black jacket.

"Bingo!" She stuck a bobby pin through the coils to slide off the key that matched the cellar lock brand.

Emma tucked the prize into her brassiere's left side, and pressed her ear to the door. No footsteps; that was a good sign. She opened the door a minimum amount of space to squeeze herself back into the hallway, then turned to pull—

"Can I help you, dearie?"

Emma spun around, while her heart leapt into her throat, tongue turning paper-dry. "I—sir?" God, if she was found out… Rumpelsteiger appeared to have just cleared the top of the stairs; if so, he might not have seen her come out of his room. She pressed a steadying hand to her chest, forcing herself to look and sound calm.

He stopped in front of her, a mean little grin curling the side of his mouth. "No need to look like you've seen the big, bad wolf, my dear." He rubbed his right cheek. "Did I forget to shave?"

"Heh," Emma forced out weakly. "No, sir, I—"

"But you _were_ looking for me? About to knock on my door, weren't you?"

Full relief flooded her at that. He hadn't seen her; she was in the clear. "I…it's only…I was looking for Ba—my husband. I believe he's needed downstairs."

"He's in the backyard," he responded tonelessly, beady eyes not moving from her, and Emma noticed an almost searching look. She squirmed, feeling like he could sense the presence of the key right through her clothing layers, nestled snugly under her breast. But that was ridiculous, she thought, exasperated with herself. For all that he was, he wasn't some telepathic wizard.

He stepped towards her so suddenly, she took a staggered pace back, ankle bending. His hands landed on her hips, yanking her close. "_Careful_, dearie." His thumbs gave her a jaunty tap on either side of her waist—very uncharacteristic for him, and thus incredibly eerie. "You nearly tripped."

For one wild moment, the unwanted touch and menacing air made the old panic Emma always felt when she was about to be frisked at another police station resurface, and she pushed back from him, head swimming. "I'm f-fine. I'm sorry to bother you, sir…I'll just go get Baelthazar now, before the guests start arriving."

"Yes, do," he returned inaudibly, as Emma grabbed up a fistful of her dress to hurry down the stairs. Rumpelsteiger leaned over the bannister, watching her departure.

* * *

An hour into the party, and her accomplice was still a no-show. Luckily, Rumpelsteiger had insisted that she and Bae welcome separate groups of people entering, so at least he wasn't around to dog her heels. Rumpelsteiger himself walked about with Whale and Jefferson flanking his sides, delivering a wan smile to any new arrivals. Emma made it a point to be in opposite parts of the entertainment area when they strutted past, afraid she wouldn't be able to control the sneer she felt rising on her features. The man had delusions of grandeur, flouncing around like he was the President of the United States with his bodyguards. The problem was, she mused, he was a delusional, cold-hearted bastard who still had loyal followers catering to his whims. She scanned the crowd again, searching for Killian. Despite the recent strain, all of this didn't seem quite so insurmountable when he was nearby.

The front door was opened for probably the fiftieth time that night…and then there he was.

In truth, it would have been impossible not to notice him. Emma felt like the whole room was staring as he shrugged out of his coat to reveal an all-black ensemble: his shirt, waistcoat, tuxedo and tie, with the panels, collar, and pocketsquare of the jacket all black satin. _Really_, Emma thought crossly, even as her eyes gave him an admiring once-over, _he couldn't have been any more conspicuous, could he_? But honestly, the man should go around in tuxedos all the time—that is, when he wasn't in his _au natural_ state. Her cheeks heated at various memories, and she wiped her sweaty palms quickly down her dress before gliding up to him, looking to any casual onlooker every bit the gracious hostess. His gaze raked appreciatively over her, a single brow raised, biting his bottom lip as a truly indecent look flamed in his eyes. Emma coughed to break the moment; if she continued to let him stare at her like she was the cat's meow, she felt she very well might fall into his arms. "Stop ogling me," she growled. "You, uh, look…"

He gave an offhand shrug, grin still flickering over his face. "I know."

_Cocky bastard_. "I've got the key," she intoned softly, as she slipped her hand into his for a casual-looking greeting. "But we can't dawdle; if the liquor supply begins to dwindle, Rumpelsteiger will head down there personally. His is the only copy."

"Hmm…well, that's a bit of a nuisance, though nothing we can't work with. Go on and mingle, Swan. I'll meet you at the entrance to the downstairs staircase at half past ten. And ease up, you look wound tighter than a top."

"Buzz off," Emma snarled under her breath, stalking away in the opposite direction. Killian was probably just trying to lighten her mood, but after her close call earlier in the evening, she was in no mood for his ragging.

After being waylaid several times by people she only vaguely recognized, complimenting her on the gala, her marriage, and her outfit, she had nearly made it to the bar. Nobody could fault her a single drink under the circumstances, and she could do with a little balm to her nerves.

She started when she felt a hand on her back, but her alarm turned to relief when Elsa circled in front of her with a tumbler of about two fingers full of some amber-colored liquor. She held out her white satin-gloved hand. "Whiskey, neat?"

"You're a lifesaver," Emma said gratefully, accepting the drink. "How'd you figure?"

Elsa gave an elegant shrug. "I make it my business to notice things."

A little shiver of unease trickled down Emma's spine; she wasn't sure how she ought to take a comment like that, from a member of this household. But the woman in front of her didn't have a malevolent bone in her body. It wasn't anything she could explain to Killian or the CIA, but she just _didn't_—

"There you are!" A loud, familiar voice singsonged, and Emma saw Elsa cringe simultaneously with her. Hans traipsed clumsily up to them, already well on his way to getting completely sloshed. Emma glared at him; she hadn't been able to determine anything else from her initial intelligence on him; his sole purpose in Rumpelsteiger's crew seemed to be shadowing Elsa at all times, though why…well, that was still unclear. All she knew was that he made Elsa uncomfortable, and that, coupled with his sleazy airs, had bred a strong dislike for him in Emma.

She appraised his getup for the evening with one eyebrow raised, balancing the elbow of her arm with the whiskey on her hip. He was done up to the nines, in some dark jacket and white pants that looked like a military uniform, though Emma couldn't determine for what by the patches on his chest. Likewise, the medals appeared to be decorative, without any specific labels or titles; she wondered if they had been put in the place of others he'd nefariously won during the war. The effect was laughably ornamental to her. "Very smart couture, Hans," Emma said snidely, reaching her other hand out to flick the fringe dangling from one of the epaulettes. "Has the Queen of Hearts made you her Crown Prince of Wonderland?"

He scowled back at her. "Someday, _Mrs. Gold_, this uniform will mean something again. Once people like Rumpelsteiger return to the—"

"Hans, you're babbling," Elsa cut in abruptly. "Please, just—"

He reached into his pants pocket, stuck a piece of snuff in his cheek. "I think we need some fresh air," he said tightly, roughly grabbing Elsa's forearm to pull her towards the backyard with him. Emma moved to block his path.

"She can leave when she likes. Besides, you interrupted us."

His face started to redden, but Elsa stepped between them, hands raised placatingly. "It's alright, Emma. I want to go." Now she was the one pulling Hans after her, while he and Emma continued their staredown until the other two cleared the doorway. Emma's eyes narrowed after them, swishing her glass around while she thought. There was something crooked going on there, and whatever it was, all she knew for now was that she didn't like it.

She made her way over to the bar. "How's the champagne supply holding up, Glass?" Emma asked, with just the barest touch of feigned interest.

He glanced at the tub of crushed ice, scrutinizing the supply. "Half-full, madam. I would say we'll be set for a good while."

"Excellent," she murmured, already walking away. That would buy plenty enough time for her and Killian to get into the cellar and poke around. If she could locate the damned—

"Hey!" Someone had jostled her shoulder from behind, and she turned—right into Killian. He tipped his champagne glass towards her in a half-toast. "Impressive spread, love. The band's a killer—how 'bout that cello fiddler, hmm? Mutton was a tad overcooked, but these things happen. And may I say, you've always been a dish, but tonight—"

"Keep your voice down!" she hissed under her breath. He was nearly shouting, and people were turning their way. "Are you out of your mind?! Getting drunk right before we sneak down to root around in an ex-Nazi's…well, whatever it turns out to be?"

He dipped his head close, breath tickling her ear. "Perception is everything, Swan. I know you've been quite intuitive with this whole setup from day one, but remember…I've been doing this far longer than you."

"Very well," she finally answered grouchily.

He took a surreptitious glance around the place, getting his bearings. "Which direction is the cellar?"

"Take that hallway, and then the staircase at the end of it."

"I'm going to make my way down there now; come after me in two minutes."

Emma nodded tersely, turning away and striding across the room, downing her drink in a single swig. At two minutes on the nose, she inched her way inconspicuously around the couples waltzing about the dance floor, and nearly tumbled down the stairs in her haste. Right before she nearly fell on her face from the second-to-last step, a strong arm encircled her waist, hauling her upright. She gave a very unladylike huff.

"You practically squeezed the wind out of me!"

Killian only cocked one unconcerned brow at her. "Noted: the lady Swan wishes to be allowed to break her leg whilst navigating stone stairwells. Apologies, but I have a problem with letting perfection become unnecessarily marred." He snatched her hand, and delivered a quick kiss to the inside of her wrist before she could yank it away.

"Just—let's get on with it, Casanova." She ducked under his arm, plucking the key from her brassiere and twisting it into the lock.

"Ingenious," Killian said, with a lusty leer. "Though that's the first place I'd have looked."

Emma rolled her eyes, pushing the heavy door open. "I'm sure of it."

They stepped in quickly, shutting themselves in near-darkness, groping for some kind of light. Killian was the one to walk into a dangling cord, and he gave it a sharp yank. A single bulb flickered to life, and they swiveled about, taking in the new surroundings.

"Looks like a wine cellar to me," Emma stated, folding her arms. It was drafty in there, and the place was giving her the creeps.

"Now, Swan, where's your imagination? Remember what I told you earlier—it's all about perception. I shan't be surprised if Rumpelsteiger goes by the same belief. Crafty, that one."

"That's one word for him," she grumbled.

Killian chuckled, turning towards the shelf immediately in front of him. It looked to be composed solely of reds from the last two decades. "S'pose it's as good a place to start as any. Stay at the door, love. Listen for anyone approaching."

Emma leaned against the stone next to the door, head cocked while she watched Killian moving various bottles around. She started pacing as he moved on to the shelf's second tier, a crinkle of paper sounding loud in the small space.

"Now that's interesting." Killian reached between two rows of bottles, finger running along a clipboard nailed to the wall behind them. "It's some sort of chart…'Subject 1'…'Subject 2'…what the devil…."

She jumped and spun around when she heard a magnificent crash behind her. Killian had nudged a bottle over the edge with his elbow, and it now lay shattered at his feet. Emma marched over, ready to hiss if he wanted the entire guest list coming down to join them, when she noticed the sickly yellow—not red—liquid trickling towards the floor drain. And then a horrific stench hit her nostrils.

"Holy smokes," Emma gagged, holding a hand over her nose and mouth. "That's—what the hell—?"

"Formaldehyde," Killian said grimly, picking his way carefully around the mess, nose scrunched. "And a bloody lot of it."

Emma squatted down next to him, holding her dress aloft, watching the mess slowly churn down the drain, though a substance with a somewhat thicker, jelly-like viscosity started to clog on top. "What _is_ that?"

"One way to find out." Killian pulled a fountain pen about half the size of a regular one out from his inside breast pocket, unscrewed the cap, then the actual inkwell—which appeared empty—and finally, delicately, used both now-separate pieces to scoop up a small amount of the bottle contents. He then screwed the whole thing back together, and went to tuck it back into his pocket.

"Now _that's_ nifty," Emma remarked, squinting at the pen-turned-vial. "When do I get one?"

"Your next assignment," he shot back flippantly, his eyes snapping to hers almost immediately after. "I—I'm sorry, Swan. I didn't mean—"

"Understood," she replied quickly, not wanting to dwell on there not being any next time between them. "Just help clean up this mess."

"I'll clean it up, you just go keep watch."

He swept the broken glass under the shelf the wine bottle had fallen from, then pulled a bottle with the same vineyard label from a lower tier, and stuck it in the empty spot. "Good as new," he murmured, dusting his hands on his pants, when a small tapping against the door had his head snapping to attention. With a curse, he made two long strides to the door, wrenched it open, and pulled it shut behind him. Emma was staring at him wide-eyed.

"I heard voices, so I thought—"

He clutched her just under the shoulder. "You did the right thing, darling. Is there another way out of—" He trailed off when the voices didn't dissipate; in fact, they were headed straight towards them. Even if they ran for outside at this point, it wouldn't be enough time to not be seen or heard; the back door had a small window set into it at face level.

Emma turned, her fingers digging into the crooks of his elbows as the voices became louder. "Oh god, Killian, it's the Rumpelsteigers!"

"Don't panic, lass, just because we're down here—" He dropped his voice as three pairs of legs became visible, then turned back to see Emma staring in fear at the key in her palm.

"Oh—oh, _shit_! The—the door, Killian!" She looked between it and him frantically. "I didn't get the chance to lock it, and they're going to find out, and they'll know it was me—"

He laid his hand on her shoulder, folding her hand over the key with his good one. "Swan…do you trust me?"

She stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "Of _course_ I trust you!"

"Then just follow my lead," he whispered, a second before he pushed her against the stone hallway, and pressed himself against her from shoulder to knee. And then his lips came down over hers.

In that moment, Emma didn't care that the Rumpelsteigers were headed straight towards them, and would witness the whole spectacle; Killian was kissing her again, and it felt so right after nearly two weeks without his touch, she almost wept. Her eyes fluttered shut as his hands cupped her jaw on either side, and his stiff, gloved one tilted her chin to deepen the kiss. Her hands moved to his wrists, squeezing tightly as she felt his lips move from hers, and up the right side of her face—the side not in view.

"Now push me away," he instructed lowly, "…_now_!" Emma shoved with all her might immediately, hearing him hit the wall opposite with a loud grunt before she'd even opened her eyes again. When she did, Rumpel Senior and Bae were in front of them.

Bae's purpled face looked ready to blow a fuse, seemingly trying to get words out without much success. His father, on the other hand, was smiling serenely, with a completely unperturbed look on his face. He ended up speaking first.

"You're the gentleman from the racetrack, correct?" He turned, a look of faux-curiosity on his face. "Emma, dearie, why didn't you tell us you'd invited your _friend_?"

"I—he's not—"

"What the _hell_ is going on here?!" Bae finally burst out. He thrust a finger right in Killian's face. "_You_—I saw you! You kissed my—"

"Apologies, mate," Killian said, with a manufactured slur. He clapped a hand on Bae's shoulder, hard. "She…she just looks good 'nuff to eat; can't blame me for that, eh?"

Bae shook him off violently. "You son of a—"

"Darling, he's drunk," Emma said in a small voice, not missing the way Killian's eyes flashed angrily at the endearment. "I was trying to handle it discreetly, and then he, well…you saw."

"And why, pray tell, is he here in the first place?!"

"I—I was just trying to be charitable to an acquaintance. He doesn't have many associates outside of business in the city…."

"I can only imagine why, if he goes about fondling other men's wives!"

Rumpelsteiger looked round at the other three, appearing absolutely tickled pink at the confrontation. "Now, now, sounds like this ought to be saved for a private conversation." He turned his falsely cheerful visage on Killian. "Mr.—?"

"Jones."

"Ah…_Jones_. Much as this little interlude has enlivened a rather dull evening, I must say it's time to make yourself scarce. Don't need any rumors of unpleasantry coming out of my abode, now do I?"

Bae looked wildly between Killian and Rumpelsteiger. "But, Father, he's insulted me in my own house! I have every right to have him step outside, and—"

Rumpelsteiger's bony hand closed over Bae's upper arm tight enough to bruise, if Bae's whitening complexion was anything to go by. "It is _my_ house, and don't you forget it, boy. 'Stepping outside'? Lord, but without your heritage, you'd be nothing more than some scrapping street ruffian, wouldn't you?"

Bae opened his mouth to no doubt protest more, but Rumpelsteiger held up a silencing hand. "Enough! Go tend to your neglected guests. I believe Mr. Jones here"—he fixed Killian with a frozen, reptilian smile—"can show himself out, Daughter-in-Law?"

"Bloody bad form of me, my good man," Killian called out after Bae. "It's just—you've won, old bean. Gotten the fairest in the land, and nothing I can do about it."

_What the hell was he doing_? _Did he really have to lay it on that thick_? "That's quite enough, Kil—Mr. Jones," Emma stated sternly. Her heart was still beating speedily; how could she get the room locked while Rumpelsteiger was still skulking about? At least he and Glass had moved to the base of the stairs, no doubt wanting to make sure Bae went back to the main room instead of lying in wait for Killian and causing a scene. "I think it's best if you left the—"

"Until we meet again, Princess," Killian bumbled, reaching out and grasping her wrists. Emma hurriedly tilted her right wrist back, and to her relief felt Killian fish the key out of her sleeve and palm it in the blink of an eye. There was no chance anyone would have caught that sleight of hand. He stumbled a bit, enough to put him directly in front of the cellar door, Emma discreetly shielding him from view. She heard Rumpelsteiger speaking to Glass again, they probably weren't even looking…nevertheless, when Killian inserted and turned the key soundlessly, Emma felt the taut atmosphere surrounding her physically ease.

"Just—please _leave_," Emma continued, hoping her voice didn't break.

"As the lady wishes," Killian said, turning to start back up the stairs, missing a step or two for Rumpelsteiger's benefit. Emma grabbed up her skirt, and went in the same direction after a beat.

Glass turned back expectantly to the cellar's door, awaiting Rumpelsteiger's cue. The older man pulled out his keyring, began to customarily flip through it. Then he did it again. A third time. He squinted down at it curiously; there was something amiss in the air this evening, but with a handful of pieces missing, it wasn't anything he could pinpoint concretely just yet. Well, now was not the time to dwell on a lost key. His mind was always sharpest immediately after a full night's sleep, anyway. He tucked the keyring away.

"You know, Monsieur Glass…there are still a few bottles of champagne left upstairs, _non_?"

Glass gave him a puzzled look. "Y-yes, sir, but soon—"

"And what of the wine supply? Plenty?"

"Why yes, sir, no danger of that running low for the duration of—"

"Excellent, excellent. You know, Glass, I think our guests can live without champagne for a few more hours. Nobody but themselves to blame for that; they've barreled through the immediate supply, they can content themselves with wine."

"Very good, sir."

* * *

**A/N: This chap was getting crazy long, so the end of the evening will be dealt with at the beginning of the next one. Thank you to those keeping up with this story, especially Lifeinthewoods, who continues to encourage me at each step.**


	9. Chapter 9

_God, this one was like pulling teeth. This is the longest chapter yet, but I felt like everything contained in this chap was essential. I'm not sure if it counts as a trigger warning, but there is some 'reluctant consent' that come to fruition here (which has been hinted at in past chaps. Don't worry-it doesn't go into detail (because who wants to read about SwanFire sex in a CS story? Or ever? EW.)_

_Also, I'm not sure if this was a legit question or a troll, but Emma's last name is from her birth mother. It's not spelled out, but it's assumed that either her father died before her birth or her parents were never married, both reasons that a baby would be given up in those days. Either way, her parents aren't going to make an appearance in this story._

* * *

In his embarrassment at his father's hands, Bae seemed content to make a beeline for the bar as soon as he was up the stairs, and pull up a stool for the remainder of the evening. Emma hustled Killian out the front door, mumbling to the staff that she needed to show him out personally. She pulled him off to the side into a narrow alcove with a hedge arching over them.

"I believe this belongs to you." He took the key from his pocket, and made to tuck it back into her brassiere. She grabbed it before he could.

"Can it, Jones. Not in the mood for your fresh overtures." She looked down at it, mouth twisted as though it was burning her hand. "I'll be glad to get rid of this."

Killian was hardly listening, staring blindly at a point over her shoulder; all he could feel was white-hot rage spiraling through him, and he knew Emma would think something was wrong if they made eye contact. Which there was—the problem being that she was tied to a dangerous buffoon for the unforeseeable future, and his chest physically ached to see said buffoon raking his eyes all over her form—in _front_ of him—as though she hadn't had a stitch of clothing on, barking at her like he owned her, and her meekly accepting it. Which she absolutely _should_; she was being a first-rate mole…but gods did he hate it.

"Killian? Did you hear me?"

He gave his head a small shake to clear it. "Certainly, Swan. I trust you'll know what to do."

Emma squinted doubtfully at him. "Are you all right?"

His hand closed around his opposite wrist behind him, squeezing with more force than a flesh-and-bone hand could've tolerated. "Just gravy. It simply…simply looks like you've gotten quite chummy with your target, as of late."

She stepped closer, rolling her lips like she was fighting a smile or laugh. "Oh, _Killian_. With everything going on, now's not the time to be jealous. Though I _am_ flattered by—"

He threw up his hands. "Of _that_ hooligan? Why would I be jealous? I look far better in a tux than he!"

"Amongst other things," Emma replied, reaching out for his shoulder, but Killian shrank back as far as the damned hedge arch would allow. If she touched him, he very well might lose it altogether, and storm back inside to pummel Baelthazar's dopey mug into Nazi jelly, mission be damned. She dropped her hand limply, the questioning look back on her face.

"Swan, I think we need to keep interactions professional whilst I'm still on your _husband's_ property."

Her jaw dropped. "You _are_ jealous. Why, you bullheaded—"

"Let's forego the glowing adulations, darling. You were top-notch tonight." He doffed an imaginary cap to her, earning himself a scowl. "I can't say when we'll get the results back from…whatever this turns out to be," Killian said, giving a light tap over his breast pocket. "I'd like to say a week, and since it's much more risky to contact you now, let's just call it a date, shall we? Headquarters the Tuesday after next, one in the afternoon."

"That's—that's quite awhile from now. What if something should—"

"Swan, something could—and still may—happen at any step in this operation. I've never withheld the danger of all this from you. The important thing is to keep it together."

"Easy for you to say," she seethed. "_You're_ on the outside."

"I'm sure it's not much comfort, but know that I've got your welfare at the front of my mind at all times." He darted a glance to either side to ensure they were alone, then brushed a thumb gently across her cheekbone. "Even if there's another tending to your physical comfort."

She slapped his hand away. "You're being a real—as your people would say—_wanker_, Jones. I don't know why, but knock it off." She ducked out from under the hedge, walking stiffly back towards the house. Killian could see the anger in the set of her shoulders.

"Remember, lass—"

"Next Tuesday, yes. I gathered that's when you…well, the office, wanted to see me the first time you said it." She turned her head to the side, but the lights streaming from guests leaving swept her profile in shadow. "Get home safely, Jones. I've heard this isn't the safest area to be after dark. Or ever."

Killian stared after her, scratching the tip of his ear absently. Oh, she was furious for definite—but it was better this way. They were on the verge of some kind of breakthrough against the Rumpelsteigers, and whatever news it held, all he was positive about was that it'd only mean more complications in their mission, and he'd never been accused of not fully having his head in the game. Then again, he'd never felt as though that were even a prospect, until now. And after that soul-baring chat a couple weeks ago…he was feeling a bit unbalanced as to what exactly they were to each other. They'd moved beyond mere colleagues, and they weren't simply lovers…either way, putting personal problems on the front burner would only be detrimental to the cause. Push her away now, drive her to a state of the barest tolerance for him. Eventually she would give up, and he would lose her, just as he'd lost everyone else of any importance. But really, that would be safer for her well-being—not to mention , Killian thought, safer for his own heart.

* * *

When the last of the stragglers filed out the front door, Emma approached Bae, stomach churning. By that look on his face earlier, and what with his father refusing to let him take his anger out on Killian, she didn't know what to expect from his temper now. She placed her palms against his chest, hoping the light touch would keep him in pleasant spirits, and he smiled down at her. "I think we should just turn in, and forget about all that unpleasantness earlier, don't you?"

She was surprised he'd beaten her to the punch. "So, you're…you're not mad?"

He laughed loudly, then hoisted her up off the ground, holding her suspended with his arms around her waist. "At you? No, no, my silly little dove, why should I? Yes, it was an impetuous and featherbrained thing you did, but I suppose it's to be expected. I've never been married before, and I simply have to get used to the idiosyncrasies of your sex's nature. Or…find how to bend them to my will."

Emma could feel her smile turn stony; she wished she could wrap her legs around his middle, and tighten them until he gasped for air. Even if she did have the strength, she'd be foolish to think of harming him in a household full of his father's allies. "How delightful," she managed to eek out beyond her frozen face, then screeched when his other arm hooked under her knees to lift her entirely, carrying her bridal-style up the stairs.

"Dear, you don't have to—"

"But I want to, wife. Tonight is a special night, after all."

What _was_ he talking about? Emma wracked her mind as to what he could be referring to. "I—I agree, darling. I'd say the party was a rollicking success, and—"

He shot her an irritated look. "A plague on that party. I was speaking about what you promised me whilst I was ill. We're married, and I'm at my full strength again."

"Perhaps you should wait a bit longer, just to make sure—"

He gave her what was probably meant to be an alluring smile, but it only chilled Emma to the bone. "We're going to enjoy each other tonight, my dove—I've waited long enough, with your teasing little quips and flaunting your decadent figure in front of me for months."

"But, dear—"

His lips started to tighten, while his face reddened. "I don't see why you're so bashful all at once, but I don't have any patience for it. We're man and mate, and I'll brook no argument from you about acting like it."

_Mate…like an animal_. Like she was chattel to be ordered about. Though, Emma thought, she was, in a way: she'd allowed the government to trade her for classified insights; it had been pretty much a given on accepting Regina's "deal". Emma was sure she could feel her heart start to thrum at an irregularly fast speed. So there would be no reprieve, then, nor did she have Anna and her magic elixir this time around to get her out of a tight spot. Her thighs clenched together instinctively, before she took a flying leap to the floor and hustled well in front of Bae towards their bedroom. If this was going to happen, it'd be on her terms as much as possible.

"Just give me a moment to…slip into something a little more comfortable."

* * *

She willed herself to remember to breathe, slowly and steadily, as she climbed into bed. There was a trick she'd learned, back when she'd received beatings at the hands of the matrons, short-term foster parents, and later on, every so often, a violent john. Her body slipped into the rudimentary motions of the career she had left nearly a year ago now, knowing how to move so there'd be no complaints or curious stares, while her mind completely abandoned her. She could almost look down on the scene as though she were a different person, one of those perverts watching a ten-cent peepshow off Times Square.

The scum she sat astride suddenly stiffened, and the motion unceremoniously jerked Emma back into the situation at hand. He hands dug into her thighs until she nearly yelled out, before finding his release and relaxing his hold. She swiftly disentangled herself, rolling away as far as the full bed would allow, pulling the sheets up to her chin.

"Whoo-whee!" Bae rolled over to face her, giving her a rough pinch on the rump. "Now that was worth the—are you _crying_?" His face screwed up in near-disgust. "What's the problem? Surely not my—"

"N-no, darling," Emma spoke slowly, hoping to mask the tremble in her voice. "It was—it was just a very moving experience, and…my feminine emotions were overwhelmed."

He let out a very—in her opinion—idiotic sounding chortle, the echo of it reverberating off the bedchamber walls. "Is that it? Well, go pull yourself together, pet, 'cause I can promise I shan't have my fill of you anytime soon." He pulled back the bedcovers, and tilted his head towards the lavatory.

She forced a timid smile, and pushed herself up, somehow making it to the lavatory on shaking legs, and pulling the door shut. At first, she went to immediately slip out her diaphragm that she'd slid into place in anticipation of this gut-churning scenario, but her hand was shaking like a leaf. Emma paused, eyes squeezed shut, the back of her head and palms pressed against the door. How had everything come to this? Even after being briefed on every conceivable scenario, and Regina forcing this marriage, she'd still held onto the small possibility that things wouldn't end up going this far. How even a few months ago she'd had the bravado to _joke_ about such a probability as using her physical traits to gain an upper hand. But back then, Killian's very presence had been enough to soothe her worries over the job she'd naïvely undertaken.

* * *

_Four and a half months earlier_

Killian kicked the door shut behind him, striding over to the kitchenette and tossing the bag of fruit and trussed up chicken he'd gotten at the market. Once Emma arrived, he could start—

"Hi, Killian."

He nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning around at the same time. "Good god, Swan—trying to give me a heart attack?"

She looked up from the bed where she lay on her stomach, flipping through one of the dusty tomes that had come with the room's bookshelf. Her hair hung in wet tangles, bare legs crossed behind her at the ankles.

"You're not a very good spy if _that_ gave you a heart attack," she snarked, sitting up. The neckline of her floral dress gaped slightly at the neck. "Once I was certain the sap was on the hook, I wanted to tell you straightaway."

Killian raised a brow. "And, naturally, decided to break in, rather than wait downstairs like a common peasant."

Emma only shot him an 'of course' look, and went on: "_Annnd_, then I felt like taking a shower; I thought I had more time to get presentable before—"

"It went well, then?" he asked hesitantly.

Emma gave him a pleased little smirk. "Did you really think I couldn't, after all the rigmarole you stiffs have put me through the past few months?"

He flashed her a smile, crossed over to pour them drinks. "Even the most stoic of men would bow before your bewitching lures, much less a blustering lunkhead such as he. I'd hazard a bet that he _still_ doesn't know what hit him." He turned back around to measure out the liquor.

"Killian…" Emma looked down, concentrating on her fingertips running over the bedspread's pattern. "I know I was recruited partly because my past was so easy to reconstruct, but…was there some other reason, too?"

He turned around from his spot at his small wet bar, brow furrowing. "Such as?"

"I mean…did the CIA and MI6 think I'd be more amenable to—to sacrificing myself? Because of the racket I ran to get by?"

She could've sworn a blush flowered on his cheek, before he swiveled around hastily, and started loudly clinking ice cubes into his tumbler. "Sacrificing? I don't really think events will get to jumping-into-the-line-of-fire point, but the risks—"

Emma raised her voice, certain he was being purposefully obtuse. "_Jones_. Am I expected to be a honeytrap? I mean, I have no issue socializing with—"

Killian spat his mouthful of rum out with such force, it sprayed out a full two feet and flowed down the window in front of him. She covered her mouth discreetly; wanting to laugh at the break in his debonair countenance, but also not wanting to be distracted from her serious question.

"Gads, Swan," he choked out, wiping the droplets clinging to his chin. "Wherever did you learn that term?"

She settled back against the headboard, crossing her ankles, trying to look as modest as possible for a gal reclining half-dressed on a rakish British operative's bed. "I'm not a complete moron, Killian, I _do_ know how to read, and I've read my fair share of penny spy stories." She looked back down, twisting a loose thread. "Libraries were the one place they couldn't really kick me out of. Some days, I stayed until closing."

He came over and sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. "You're decidedly not a moron, love, and I wasn't implying it." He laid a hand on her ankle, lifting it into his lap. "You're just, well…not what I expected. Maybe I ought to be accustomed to it at this point, but…I've simply never met someone like you." He looked down for a second, and when he glanced back up, a mischievous glint had replaced his serious expression. "But I think the question here is…do you have what it takes, love?"

"Have what?"

"The allure and moxy to be a honeytrap, of course." Emma only rolled her eyes as he continued, hand caressing her calf. "First off, you've got to have a certain aura." He stood up and extended his hand towards her. "Show me your top-notch seductive wiles, Swan."

So he was going to turn it into a joke after all. Fine, she decided, he wanted to play his silly little games, she could do it right back. She didn't particularly want to know the answer anyways, truth be told. "Well…" she leaned onto her side, legs still crossed, her already half-unbuttoned dress fluttering open to reveal the valley of her breasts. Emma gathered her hair in a handful, and twisted it to the top of her head. "Why dontcha come up and see me sometime, laddie?" A little titter escaped her at that; keeping a straight face about this was impossible.

He blew out a breath in faux-frustration. "Now, lass, you can't go blowing your cover like that, you'd be—" His eyes darkened, and he started walking over. "You haven't completely redressed, from the looks of things."

She let her hair go, ran a finger lightly down the undone button placket to tug it further apart, widening her eyes innocently. "Hmm? Oh, no, it doesn't appear so."

He made it to the bed, started stalking across it on his hands and knees like a jungle cat hunting its dinner. Emma squealed, pushing herself as far up the bed as possible, until she was sitting ramrod straight against the headboard. He pulled her into his lap.

"I'm afraid you've failed the dialogue portion of the honeytrap audition, darling, but let's see if you can redeem yourself by physical attributes," he said, wriggling his brows at her and yanking the open halves of the dress down to her waist. "Got to have a body built for enticement, as well."

Now Emma was in a full-blown, hysterical bout of giggling, shifting restlessly in his grip, pushing weakly against his chest. "You're a complete—a complete louse, Killian Jones!"

"I've been called worse," he said with a shrug, before reaching out and rubbing the pad of his thumb lightly over a bare nipple. Emma closed her eyes as it stiffened, leaned further into his touch, giving a jerk when she felt cold metal against the other one. She looked down to see Killian tentatively pressing the thumb of his prosthesis against her, though he glanced up quickly when he felt her still.

"I—I'm sorry, lass, I should've asked—"

She arched into the false hand. It felt somewhat strange, but the unfamiliar sensation was also oddly pleasurable. "Keep going," she murmured, as he let both hands trail down to cup her. "I…I like it."

She gave a jolt when he gave a firm squeeze to her breast with the metallic appendage, his other hand dropping to squeeze her rump firmly. God, for a one-handed man, he was like an octopus, using any appendage he could to make her flesh heat, always doggedly working her up to a breaking point before he was even inside her.

She _did_ wonder at the momentary unease she'd seen in his eyes when he had been contemplating her question, before switching to irreverence. But sticking to teasing was good—it kept things easy between them. And after this unexpected, explosive compatibility she'd found with Killian, Emma truly didn't want to fathom another man's touch.

She looked down to where Killian had pressed his lips to her. "Will all assignments be like this, sir?" she ribbed fondly. "Because I have to say, this isn't much of a challenge, seeing as you're just my type."

He released her with an obscene sucking sound, before switching to the other breast. "A type, love? And what type would that be?"

Emma's fingers fisted into his hair, eyelids fluttering at the teasing pressure. "F-for spies. You see, Agent…_oh_, that's lovely…Agent Jones, I've got a thing for spies. They're the only ones who can…_ahhh_…can get me hot."

He rose up, pulling her into his lap, a leg on either side of his waist, and pushed her bunched dress over her head. "Is that right?"

"Mmmhmm. I'd say you're at even more at a disadvantage than most, since…since…"—her eyelids fluttered as he positioned her over where he was hard and wanting for her—"…my specialty is taking down charming bastards."

His hands gripped her hips, sliding her down onto his cock inch by inch, so slowly Emma nearly screamed in frustration. Their goofy façade lifted for a few seconds as he bottomed out, fully seated within her, and their foreheads pressed together, sighs escaping them concurrently. Killian ran his hands lightly up her sides, raising them to lay against her shoulder blades, pulling her closer—

* * *

"Pet!" Emma gave a start at the sudden yell. "I'm getting lonely out here!"

"Coming," she answered faintly, the memory fading into mist. She turned towards the sink, and made the mistake of glancing at herself in the gilt-edged mirror hanging over it. Her nude form was flushed, coated in now-cold sweat, hair a mass of sex-mussed tangles, eye makeup thoroughly smudged. The beginnings of bruises on either of her sides were already starting to show; she wondered if he was always this harsh, or if it was to pay her back in a way for witnessing Killian's public affection. They weren't the result of a half-crazed passion, as it had been with Killian; this had been more like a beast taking its…well, its mate, holding her firmly to prevent escape—an exotic butterfly writhing in its last throes of life against the collector's pin. Emma's lips slowly parted as she took it all in, the tears welling up again. In that instant, she didn't feel like a spy or an asset to anyone or anything; to her, she looked just like the dirty whore that Regina had deemed her from day one.

"I am," she whispered brokenly, her fingertips pressing gently into her sore sides. "A whore and a criminal. That's all I've ever been."

She reached out to turn on the faucet full blast just in time to mask her sobs, which shook her whole frame as she gripped the sides of the sink. Running a hand under the cold water, she splashed her face, then slipped out her diaphragm to wash it and herself before putting it back in to prepare to return to bed. She was taking no chances that that bastard could implant his spawn within her womb, and sent up a quick prayer to whomever could possibly be listening to rescue her from this fresh hell—and soon.

* * *

_I trust you'll know what to do_. Though all her thoughts seemed to be coming in at speeds slower than a tortoise through tar, and hazy to boot, Emma mulled over her choices as fast as she could. Bae was asleep, turned away from her and snoring like a foghorn. At least, she thought with no small dose of sardonicism, her long-honed skills in the sack hadn't gone rusty at the wrong time. She looked down at the key, twisting it between her thumb and forefinger. Rumpelsteiger hadn't had Glass bring out more libations after she and Killian had left them last night; the old miser had let the levels run down naturally to give the guests the hint to hit the road. And if that were the case…a small grin started to quirk up one corner of her mouth. Well, she'd been incredibly lucky in all these dealings so far, maybe it wasn't too much to assume that Rumpelsteiger hadn't even noticed his key was gone. He wasn't the type to create an overt spectacle of any grievance against him, but nor was he the 'suffer in silence' type. If not the guests, she would at least have suspected the household to have gotten wind of his displeasure. But there hadn't been so much as a peep about the locked door or a lost key.

She walked to the window; the car was gone, which meant more likely than not that Rumpelsteiger was out, too. And if he was gone, that meant Whale, Jefferson, and Bude were with him—they didn't seem to hold Bae in enough esteem to solely seek out his company. She padded softly downstairs, peering into the hall closet. Rumpelsteiger's golf clubs and shoes appeared to be gone, too, which was promising—it afforded her some time. Emma still hurried back upstairs; even though he had eighteen holes to get through, she didn't know when he'd begun. She picked the lock with ease this time, and rummaged quickly through the closet, pulling the keyring out of the same pocket she'd found them in. A relieved sigh escaped her; so she hadn't been found out. For once, the fates seemed slanted in Emma Blanchard's direction. She threaded the key back onto the ring, dropped it back into the coat's pocket, and nearly skipped out of the room after checking that the coast was clear. She felt a torrent of adrenaline coursing through her at the risky deed being done, and also for perhaps finally being done with these detestable gorillas. Her hands shook; she needed to escape for a bit. She certainly didn't want to face either of the Rumpelsteigers for at least the better part of a day, certain her disgust for one and double-dealing towards the other would be evident on her face. Gathering her things quietly, Emma scrawled a quick note saying she'd 'gone out', and tossed it on the nightstand, before dashing down the stairs, out the door, and walking in the direction of the shops.

* * *

_Splat_. Bae finally creaked his bleary eyes open; it was the third or fourth time, there was no way he was still imagining—

Another _splat_, something semisoft and damp hit his cheek, and rolled down his neck onto the sheets. "What the deuce—" He hauled himself into a sitting position to find his father sitting kitty-corner to his bed, tearing a pear apart with his bare hands and lobbing the dripping pieces at him.

He settled back onto his elbows, making sure to keep his expression uninterested instead of annoyed—there was nothing his father enjoyed more than Bae responding to his baiting. The old coot must finally be losing his marbles. Well, he had a woman now, and she could be the one to make sure his father was cared for in his senility, because he'd had enough of it in his nearly two score years on this planet to last him the rest of his life.

"Something you want, Father?" he asked dully.

His father's eyes glittered at the borderline disrespect. "Get dressed, you lounging parasite. It's nearly noon, for god's sake. Then come down to the study." He threw a crumpled scrap of paper at Bae's chest. "Seems like wifey has gone out; now's the time." Rumpelsteiger got up without further explanation, moving to the door.

"Wait, Father," Bae insisted, squinting at the note. "What's this all about?"

"You'll do as I say, and once we're in complete privacy, you'll be enlightened. Now…chop-chop." He slammed out of the bedroom, a painting dropping from the wall at the force.

Bae rolled his eyes as he wrestled into a linen suit he typically bummed about the estate in. His father always had some flair for the dramatic, but that gleam in his pupils this time…his couldn't make sense of it, which probably meant that no good was to come of whatever he had to say.

When he entered the study, he was faced with not only his father, but Dr. Whale as well.

"I thought you said this required privacy?"

Rumpelsteiger waved his hand in the air, indicating that Bae should have a seat. "Alas, certain matters cannot be helped. Jefferson is a loose cannon, and as for Bude…well, the fewer people know about this, the better. I've made use of Whale's…talents for years now. He's privy to this."

Bae was getting more wound up by the minute. "_What_ is the issue here?"

Rumpelsteiger merely pulled out one of his Cuban stogies, cut it, lit it, and blew two rings of smoke purposefully in Bae's direction. "We have a situation that needs correcting."

Bae groaned, sliding down in the stuffed leather chair until his ass hung off the seat like a squirming schoolboy. "Enough riddles, old man—"

"Your precious American wife is a government agent!" The outburst came from Whale, who stepped in front of Bae, finger in his face. "Thanks to the blinders on your cock, my experiments have suffered a dire setback!"

Rumpelsteiger flicked ash into the dish at his side. "Settle yourself, Viktor."

"I couldn't care less about your Frankenstein experim—_wait_. _What_ did you say about Emma?" Bae pulled himself up straight again.

Whale only threw his hands in the air, and perched himself on the edge of the desk. "The woman you married," Rumpelsteiger said, taking over and speaking as though to a very dense five-year-old. "The frothy little ditz is actually quite the accomplished mastermind. Or rather, whoever's instructing her is—which is almost certainly a government agency. Given her nationality, I'm inclined to believe it's the FBI or CIA. However, her amorous colleague at the party was British, so…I wouldn't rule out MI6, either."

A tight smile ghosted over Whale's face. "Lotsa folks want to bring you down, Herr Rumpelsteiger."

"Well, they won't find it easy," he replied brightly, taking a puff. "Now, _junge_, back to the small problem at hand. Imagine my disappointment when I returned this morning after a relaxing golf game to find my wine cellar desecrated—one of Viktor's samples smashed to ruins, and the pieces unceremoniously shoved beneath the shelf below—"

"And _how_ are you seeing this pinned on Emma?" Bae sighed exasperatedly. "The only person on earth with access to that cellar is _you_."

He should have known when his father didn't even berate him for interrupting that he was about to deliver bad news—one of his favorite things to do. He only smiled placidly, cracked a few knuckles.

"I was—until last night. Unless my key has quite suddenly developed teleportation abilities, it disappeared from my keyring sometime before the party, reappearing this morning. Now…isn't that strange, that your traitorous tart disappeared from upstairs, and resurfaced with, reportedly, a near-stranger in a deserted hallway across from my cellar? While the rest of the guests and staff were upstairs?"

Rumpelsteiger eyed his son intently, started giggling almost hysterically when he saw the resignation finally start to spread over his features. "She knows what you—_we_—are, Baelthazar. She's always known—she _never_ loved you." He settled back more comfortably into his chair, smoking away. "Do you recall what I said, when you first made your inane proposal to that woman?"

"Father, please—"

"I asked you a question," Rumpelsteiger said calmly, and reached into the top desk drawer, drawing out a Luger P08, and settling it in his lap. He gave it a couple of slow, two-fingered strokes along the barrel. "Answer me."

"I'd—I'd beg for forgiveness." Bae leaned back further as he eyed the gun, as though hoping the back of the chair would drop out, allowing him escape. "B-but you said you'd give it to me!"

"Indeed I did. Though I won't require your begging anymore. Isn't that wildly benevolent of me?"

Of course it wasn't. "You…you also said it'd come at a price."

Rumpelsteiger giggled. "Excellent memory, m'boy. Though as you aren't particularly adept at underhanded intrigue—or anything without my direction, quite honestly—you'll be allowed to take mainly a spectator role in how events play out."

Bae ran a hand down his sweat-drenched face. "Play out?"

"Well, we certainly can't go and let your spying little bird go and sing her findings to her employers, now can we?"

"Father," Bae said tightly, gripping the armrests in his fists. "I'm still not quite sure there's enough proof to—"

"Oh, we aren't going to _kill_ her, foolish boy! Well…not yet. As I said, certainly not when we have no inkling about what she's blabbed to her superiors."

"This is all veering towards being unnecessarily complicated," Whale insisted. "It can all be very simple; why, I have some sodium pentothal in my—"

Rumpelsteiger held up a hand, calling for silence. "Now, now, Doctor, where's your sense of _fun_?"

The two other men glanced at each other uneasily. They were all completely comfortable working in the realm of inflicting physical pain and discomfort on others—it was the reason they'd had to flee Europe. But Rumpelsteiger's tastes tended toward the psychological—and even his devices sent doubt through the most hardened of the ex-Third Reich.

"How do you mean, Father?" Bae finally asked.

"Never you mind. Go about your business as usual, Baelthazar. Yes, you may continue to play with your toy. But you won't breathe a word about this to her, and you'll stay out of my way. And you know what happens to those that interfere with my plans. Are we clear on this?"

Once Bae nodded his assent to Rumpelsteiger's satisfaction, his father allowed him to leave. Whale came to a stop in front of Rumpelsteiger, arms crossed.

"I don't like this, Herr Rumpelsteiger. I don't like this at all. Do you really want to gamble—"

"Have a little faith, Viktor," Rumpelsteiger cut in, dropping the end of his cigar in the ashtray. "Do you forget that I leave nothing to chance? This Emma Blanchard—or whomever she really is—is an amateur. She's already bending; I can tell by the circles under her eyes, the nervous glances she gives whenever entering a room. Bending, but not yet broken. And if she breaks, she's no longer an asset, but a liability to those drones in power directing her. I know how those bureaucratic sorts tick—they'll be _relieved_ to be rid of her in that condition. No mess on their hands, and nothing they can pin with any true conviction on us."

Whale dipped his head in a small bow. "As always, I stand corrected in the face of your intricate mind. But won't you at least hint at what those wheels of yours are spinning?"

Rumpelsteiger raised the Luger, aimed at some point on the wall across the room, then simply lowered his firing arm back to his lap.

"You know I hate to spoil a surprise, Viktor. But…I think I can say with near complete assuredness that once I'm done with her, Miss Blanchard will not only be broken, but will most likely expire at her own hand."

* * *

It was nearly sunset when Emma finally slipped back through the front door of the manor, unnoticed since the servants were helping prepare dinner. She felt calmer after her jaunt through the San Telmo area, spending Baelthazar's ill-begotten funds on things she didn't need simply for spite, relaxing at an outdoor café. She could probably change before the meal—

"_Emma_!" She looked around for whoever had hissed her name, and saw Elsa's pale head poking out of the dining room, beckoning madly at her.

"Am—am I late? I thought—"

"Just come _here_. I've given Hans the slip, but who knows when—" She abruptly grabbed Emma by the forearm when she got close enough, and yanked her inside the empty dining room.

Emma looked down, rubbing at the red fingerprints along her arm. "Mind enlightening me on the cause for dramatics, Cousin?"

Elsa laid a fingertip over Emma's lips. "Just…just listen, please. This is going to sound…" She finally sighed, and spouted everything in a rush. "There's a storm coming, Emma, and you're the only one I trust to—to get a message to my baby sister."

Emma's brows rose skyward. "Elsa, I don't think I'm one to—"

"Yes, you are. Things aren't clear now, but they will be. Here!" She grabbed Emma's hand, turning it palm up, and deposited something from her fist into it, curling Emma's fingers around it before Emma could even inspect it.

"If something should—should happen, well—you'll know who to give it to. Don't open it before then." Elsa started to back away, still keeping her gaze trained on Emma's face. "These are dark times, Emma, and you're the savior we need." She paused when she got to the doorway, turning to leave, throwing a last comment over her shoulder. "You're going to save all those deserving of it."

What on earth was _that_ all about? She wasn't sure if she should feel some sympathy that Elsa had apparently come unhinged, or be unsettled at whatever odd prophecy she seemed to be hinting at. Emma unfolded her fingers around the object, revealing an oval-shaped gold locket, heavily tarnished. She circled the pad of her thumb over the surface lightly, feeling like a chill had suddenly blown through the room. Even though Emma was dying to connect the dots between Elsa and the locket, true to the other's wishes, she slipped it into her pocket without peeking inside.

* * *

**A/N: I hope all the info wasn't overwhelming. I went over this chap again &amp; again-hope it measured up!**


	10. Chapter 10

_**So, I forgot a note on the last chap, when Whale suggests using 'sodium pentothal' on Emma. At that time, it was used by governments &amp; nefarious types as a "truth serum". It opened one to suggestibility more than getting out the actual truth, of course, but it was still used for many years.**_

_**In some nice news, 4getfulimaginator (burntbrokensoul on Tumblr) made an ah-may-zing graphic for this story on that site, so...y'all should go check it out. It's on both our pages.**_

_**And lastly, there is *violence* in this chapter, culminating in a *character death* (not Emma or Killian of course, but I'm sure some would still like a warning).**_

* * *

There was no singular, grand gesture, but over the next few days, Emma became supremely uneasy with the atmosphere in the mansion—moreso than usual, at least. The tension was almost a physical thing, hanging like a heavy morning mist.

Just that morning, Rumpelsteiger had actually given her a radiant, unsolicited smile at her over the breakfast table blintzes. Elsa was paler than usual, if that were possible, staring down at her plate blankly, only taking a bite when Hans gave her a not-so-subtle jab in the side. No matter what issue she was wrestling with, real or imagined, Emma was glad that she had a token of the other woman's trust. With the current state of affairs, she didn't want to brush off an offering from a potential ally.

She gripped her fork tightly, forcing herself not to scowl down at her lap, and reminded herself that less than a week now she would be privy to what she had risked her cover for at the party and be able to speak to Killian. Though, she thought glumly, jabbing the folded pastry until the jam burst out, was that even a good thing now? After they'd left the cellar during the party and eluded the Rumpelsteigers' to their true activities, he'd acted like he couldn't wait to be rid of her. It hadn't been just that, either; it was as though he was being purposefully cruel with his barbed remarks…. Had he finally gotten his fill of her, slated his fantasies of being with a working girl? Or maybe…maybe he was thinking in a purely professional manner, pushing her back to ensure that her amateur self didn't make a false move to implicate something going awry under the Rumpelsteigers' noses. That notion only made her more cross; if it weren't for her, those government idiots wouldn't even have gotten into the damn party and found…well, _something_. And now there was the matter of holding onto another puzzle piece, which she'd had absolutely _no_ say in.

Once Elsa had handed her the locket, Emma had made straightaway for the bedroom, looking wildly around for a prime hiding nook. The bureau, the closet, the nightstand, even under the mattress—there really wasn't anyplace that felt secure enough now that she was sharing a room with the enemy. That logic also applied to her; Emma had had to rule out carrying it on her person constantly—the bastard couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself ever since he'd had his way with her after the party. She even flipped over one of her heels, studying its sturdy sole. Dammit—if she still had the rags she'd gone around in most of her life, there'd have been no problem prying a corner of the sole or inner lining away to tuck something inside. But she was no cobbler; if she tried anything like that now, it would definitely draw attention.

_But maybe the same idea could be applied elsewhere_…Emma flipped over the room telephone. The bottom could be unscrewed, but she didn't want to damage the inner workings and have the trinket discovered. Frustrated, she flipped over her bedside lamp; it had a wider base—maybe there'd be more room to maneuver. Leaving it tilted on its side, she sprinted to bedroom door and turned the key in the lock, not wanting to risk discovery. Using one of the pesos she'd collected in change during the day, she twisted out all three pieces of hardware and popped the bottom off. There were still wires, but they were mostly gathered in the center, going up the inside column of the lamp—leaving most of the base. Emma circled the chain around the inside base, meeting the clasp with the locket, and started to repair the dismantled parts.

"Emma? Emma!" The doorknob jiggled noisily, and she looked up with a fearful start. "Why in hell is this door locked?"

"Just a moment!" She called, hastily tightening the last screw.

"Open the goddamn door _now_!"

Emma set the lamp upright, and took a flying, highly unladylike leap, across the room and wrenched the door open.

"What were you—"

She gripped the doorknob tightly, muttering, "It was just an accident…sorry."

He gave a skeptical look down his nose at her. "See that it doesn't happen again. And watch that flippant tone. As your husband now, you'll afford me the utmost respect."

It took all she had not to wrest her hand from his clammy, iron hold as he led her down to dinner.

* * *

"Emma? Pet?"

Her thoughts rudely interrupted, she forced her mind back to the present. Everyone at the table was staring at her.

"Sorry, dear," she smiled, patting her mouth briskly with her napkin. "You were saying?"

"I was _saying_ ," Bae said irritably, "Perhaps you'd like to go into town for the afternoon? This godawful heat is letting up, and—"

"Maybe I could rest awhile longer?" Emma cut in, pressing a palm to her stomach. "I'm…feeling rather poorly."

"Oh?" Rumpelsteiger turned his hawkish scrutiny on her. "You're not flushed, nor perspiring."

Did he think having a rogue doctor for a crony made him one as well? Emma consciously kept her eyebrow in place, biting her bottom lip sharply to keep back a rude retort. "It's my stomach. I may—may have had one too many blintzes," she lied, the nausea having hit fast and furious as soon as she'd woken up that morning. But she was afraid admitting that would have father, son, or both insisting Whale take a gander at her, and having that fink's mitts on her _would_ cause an unpleasant reaction.

Rumpelsteiger merely shook his head at her, and dug back into his breakfast. "A Rump—pardon, _Gold_, is made of sterner stuff, dearie. Going out will be good for you—and you can help Cook pick out a decent roast for supper."

If she was being forced out of the house and to be accompanied by anyone, she hoped to get Elsa alone to question her more about her cryptic warning from the other day. "In that case, might I request Elsa's company instead. We—"

"No!" Rumpelsteiger barked, so sharply all others present jumped. Emma watched as his hands tightened around his cutlery, seeming to fight for some composure. "That is to say…she's needed here."

Emma tipped her head towards the other woman, but Elsa hadn't had any reaction except to possibly grow even more sallow. Christ on a cracker, the woman looked blanched as a parsnip. Emma leaned back with a sigh. Tuesday couldn't come quickly enough.

* * *

_2 Days Earlier_

The quarter flipped over and between his fingers in a harried rhythm. "Couldn't this wait, Mills?" said Killian, fixing the woman across the desk with a blank expression. "Swa—Miss Blanchard is coming in for the brief in only three days time, and you—"

"It—it was my call, Killian," Agent Graham Humbert murmured meekly from his spot at Regina's side.

Doubtful, Killian thought grudgingly. He didn't know what the razor-tongued harridan had that enchanted his superior so; the man looked more like a whipped dog each subsequent meeting since the mission had begun. Even now, if the angle of Regina's arm was anything to go by, she had her hand on Graham's knee in a vise-like grip behind her desk. Her other was occupied with holding her cigarette to her lips while she puffed it rapidly. Killian spotted the ashtray, loaded with at least two dozen half-finished butts. He quirked an eyebrow; Regina Mills was…anxious? The thought was both heartwarming and unsettling all at once. Killian flicked his thumb, sending the quarter onto the desk surface with a noisy clatter, earning himself a glower that didn't bother him a whit. He had a more important problem—and lass—to worry about.

"We've received the results from that vial, Jones, and Gra—I mean to say, Agent Humbert and I, have come to something of an impasse."

So there were still some things Humbert wouldn't cave to? Interesting. Killian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "The contents, Mills?"

Surprisingly, Humbert jumped in before she could answer. "It's…DNA tissue." He pulled nervously at a curl that had escaped from his mop that no Brylcreem could seem to tamp down. "_Human_ DNA, Killian."

"It's not just any human's cells, Agent Jones," Regina cut in, for once looking ill at ease. "It's the…the Führer's. Former Führer's, I mean to say. The most likely scenario is that 'Whale' did some sample collecting before he was forced to flee Germany—most likely at Rumpelsteiger's behest."

"For what possible purpose?" What kind of nonsense was all this? Why would anyone…? He mulled over this new tidbit aloud, more to himself than for the other two. "Well…if I were a rabidly delusional Nazi suffering from acute megalomania…why would I want my _beloved_ Führer's organic matter?"

"Not as a souvenir, I can assure you," Graham said with a weak chuckle, cutting off when Regina shot him a deadly glare. "B-but think, Killian: what can you do with something once you've got an original blueprint? With paper documents, with plant seeds, even with, er, two p-people when they're fond of each—" he trailed off, blushing furiously.

Killian ran his hand through his hair, exasperated. "But we aren't talking about conception in the old-fashioned sense of a bloke and bird rogering each other stupid, now are we?" he said bluntly, watching Graham turn even redder. Killian fought an eyeroll; how had someone with such delicate countenance risen through the ranks to where he was? He acted as flustered as a green lad. "I may not be adept in the sciences, but I know you need two parties to make another one, see?"

"Perhaps…until now," Regina said evenly. "It appears Rumpelstieger and his mad scientist hope to annihilate that barrier—if they haven't already."

"And what's the grand plan, then?" Killian snarked. "Xerox off a few copies of one madman, stick 'em in the ground, and hope they grow into _several_ madmen in a decade or so?" When there wasn't a response from either of the other two, Killian continued impatiently. "Impossible."

"If you're such the expert, why aren't you on the lab team in DC?" Regina snarled. "It's their informed opinion, the most likely explanation—and I don't care if _you _believe it or not."

"I'm not an _expert_, but—but this is all bloody _impossible_!" He gave Graham an uncertain glance. "Correct?"

Graham rubbed a hand down his face. "I know it sounds utterly preposterous, straight from some badly written fiction. But what you said…it's—it's not far off, and it makes sense—if you can see things from Rumpelsteiger and his band's distorted world view."

His first-in-command continued on, blathering about the minutiae and step-by-steps that could make this new curveball—Führer clones—a reality, while Killian let his mind wander, leaning back and cradling his head between hand and prosthesis, staring at the ceiling. He still couldn't—wouldn't—buy this load of hogwash. Not only for the sheer eeriness of it all, but…he didn't want to think of Emma being in the clutches of someone who thought they could bring such insanity to fruition. He'd known the man was a danger before, but now this—he had even less scruples than previously assumed, and Emma was essentially in his clutches.

"Wait, what's this other business about?" He looked up, squinting between the other two. "You mentioned an impasse? On what?"

Graham pulled at his curls again. "It's…well, this strange, new anomaly is something I didn't see coming, Killian—I don't think anyone could have predicted—well, I'm prepared to pull the mole. Have to run it by a few—"

"And _I_ say the suggestion is purely laughable," Regina broke in, folding her hands on her desk. "Miss Blanchard was trained extensively, and knew what she signed on for. If she's pulled out, we won't get another chance at finalizing Rumpelsteiger's takedown. He'll know something in the water isn't clean, and clear out."

"She does seem particularly committed," Graham conceded. "To _marry_ the fiend, after Regina found the funds couldn't be spared to relocate her…."

Killian looked up sharply, but of course Regina was avoiding his pointed look. So she hadn't told Humbert about her nasty little bit of blackmail after she'd gotten the man to backpedal on his post-mission plans for Emma. It figured. Contemptible Gorgon—he'd ensure this matter wasn't over.

"You're going soft," Regina sneered at Graham. "Are you trying to say all the time and resources we've invested for nearly a year now are going to be made moot? She's just a civilian—an expendable one—and we all know it."

Killian bent his metal pinkie finger back almost to the point of dislocation. Of course he wanted Emma out, but, much as he was loathe to admit, the she-devil was simply stating facts of the case.

"Killian," Graham swung his torn expression back to him. "What'd do you think?"

* * *

_Present_

Emma wearily opened the manor's front door, letting Cook slip past her to put the groceries in the icebox. The day certainly had _not_ been cooler, and she was plain miffed. Fuck his respect; she could well give him a piece of her mind, wasn't that what married people did even if—

Glass appeared in front of her suddenly with a little bow, holding out a hand.

"I haven't got any bags, Glass, the cook brought them—"

"But of course, madam. It's not that; I've been instructed to escort you to the study."

Emma yanked away from his outstretched palm, suspicion building. The house, while never a hubbub of activity, was almost churchlike quiet. Except for Glass, there were no other servants about. "Whatever for?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss—"

"Fine. But I'm perfectly able to walk by my lonesome," she snapped, practically stomping off in front of him, though he tailed her up to the study door and swung it open for her, stepping back quickly once she was inside.

Emma's mouth dropped open at the scene that had just been foisted upon her; indeed, the room was so congested that it took several seconds. Her eyes first fell on Jefferson, who perched on the desk, aiming a gun lazily at Hans' chest, who was seated in a plush smoking chair front of him. Whale stood behind him, Rumpelsteiger and Baelthazar next to him, all facing a woman bound in a slotted wood kitchen chair, rope pulling her wrists behind her, ankles to the chair legs. But who…_Elsa_? Emma hastened around to the Rumpelsteigers' point of view; no, it _couldn't_ be—

It was. Besides her limbs being trussed up, there was also a thick rag secured in mouth and tied at the back of her head. Distressed eyes met her own, and for a moment Emma just stared with a dropped jaw, before gathering her wits enough to sputter: "What's the meaning of this?!" She tried her best to quench the quaver in her voice, to project nothing but indignation.

"It's time you see what this household is about, Miss…my _dear_ daughter-in-law. Family is an important, nay, _thee_ most important bond one can have. As your loyalty to your slain hero father so clearly shows. But crossing a member of the Rumpelsteigers as one of us—there is no greater offense I can think of."

Emma glanced quickly into Elsa's watery blue eyes, then back, unflinchingly, into Rumpelsteiger's stony gaze. It sounded like he'd found her out somehow—but then, why was his niece tied and gagged? "I still don't understand."

Bae put his hand to her back. "See, Father, this isn't—"

Rumpelsteiger stepped out from behind the chair Elsa was tied to, crossed to Bae, and backhanded him so hard across the face, his sharp knuckle opened a gash high on Bae's cheekbone. "Don't you _dare_ interrupt me, boy! I will stand for it no longer! Leaving the old country may have made you forget your manners, but I certainly will not forget my prerogative to put you in your place when you do!"

He moved to the side, in front of Emma, grabbing her hands so tightly she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. She was sure _that_ would thrill him. "I'm sure our dear Emma has no such reservations as my spineless offspring. She knows too well the pain, the _heartache_, that comes from losing good people to the capitalist savages that drove us from our home." He dropped her hands, turning and clasping his own behind his back, circling the chair. "Do you know what happens when the farmer finds a fox in the henhouse, Daughter?"

"I grew up in New England boarding schools, not the homesteads of the Great Plains, _Father_," Emma replied with a straight face, noting the twitch at the corners of Rumpelsteiger's mouth. She was sure he'd like to strike her just as hard as his son, and probably worse.

"The answer, child, is to put it down—to kill it so it cannot inflict even more damage than it undoubtedly has already. At least, that is what one _should_ do." He reached out suddenly, and wrenched off the handkerchief tied around Elsa's head. She coughed up the second one stuffed in her mouth, choking raggedly on her dry tongue. Rumpelsteiger didn't seem to want her to speak though, as he continued talking.

"Several years ago, I found a fox in _my_ own henhouse, in the form of my niece that you see before you." He spun on Emma abruptly, as though trying to take her off-guard. "Did you know Elsa was a member of the Norwegian Resistance during the later years of the war?"

_What?_ Emma dug her nails into her palms, answering steadily: "How would I have known such a thing, sir?"

He gave a falsely offhand shrug. "I thought perhaps my son might've mentioned it, but then again—you see, in spite of her treachery, my weakling boy has a fondness for his cousin. Didn't want her past revealed, especially once she came back to us, begging forgiveness. And I foolishly allowed it, even assigned a watcher to her, though"—he gestured towards Hans—"that doesn't seem to have been a success."

Hans finally spoke up. "Sir, please—"

Rumpelsteiger raised a hand, and Jefferson cracked Hans across the mouth. He stuck the tip of his tongue out to gingerly dab at his split lip, and didn't attempt to continue.

"Tell me, dear: what should I have done when this—" he pulled Elsa's head back by her braid—forcing a harsh, shallow inhale from her— inches from his sneering face, "—came crawling back to me?"

Emma knew what the right answer would be to this screwball, but she also suspected by the wild gleam in Rumpelsteiger's eye that no matter what she said…there would be consequences.

"If she was sincere, of course you should have granted your forgiveness," she said carefully. Rumpelsteiger let out a maniacal little giggle.

"But she _wasn't_, my dear. Do you know how I know this?" He pulled his key loop out of his pocket, threading his fingertip through the wine cellar key, and held it up for her perusal.

_Oh God, she'd been too late. He'd noticed after all_. Emma felt like she'd just turned to granite.

"Do you know what this is? The key to my wine cellar. Do you know who else has been granted access to it?" His eyes turned to slits when she remained silent, certain he'd been about to answer himself again. "Well, _do_ you?!"

"I'd wager only you do, sir."

The older man let out a loud laugh, clapping his hands together like some demonic child. "Oooh, Baelthazar, a shrewd one you've won! A point won for you, dearie, a point!"

Emma continued to stare at him with as blank an expression as she could muster, fisting her sweaty palms in the back of her skirt.

"Imagine my chagrin when, during that extravagant gala the other night—hosted by me—to discover the key missing. Being the naturally trusting individual that I am, I thought nothing suspect of it at first—until it re-appeared, threaded back into my keyring the next morning. And then I found _this_." He walked forward and thrust an object so close to her nose, she had to take a step back. It was a shard of the wine bottle Killian had knocked over, a large piece with the date sticker—1936—on it. Emma wrinkled her nose at the lingering stench of formaldehyde on it.

"Someone took my key, and went snooping in my wine cellar. Did this individual really think I wouldn't notice a bottle of my 1940 suddenly lined up next to the 1934?"

Even in such a tense situation, Emma fought an eyeroll at Rumpelsteiger's inclusion of his affluent life's problems into the mix. "That's quite reprehensible, really," she remarked blandly, noting the anger starting to glitter in Rumpelsteiger's eyes. "But, sir, perhaps it was just—"

"No. It was no servant, no associate of mine, none of the other excuses you're ready to make, Miss—my dear. It was someone who was looking for something in particular—and they found it."

"And what was that, sir," Emma intoned, still trying to sound only faintly interested in where all this was leading.

"That concerns only myself, and the intruder. Which I've deduced to be my niece."

"But—"

"She is the only one whose had ties to different loyalties in the past, the only one with cause to go against me. Why, it couldn't conceivably be anyone else…could it, Emma dear?" He circled behind the chair again, taking something out of his suit pocket—his Luger P08, which he slid a single bullet into conspicuously for everyone in the room to see. After Emma didn't answer, he looked up. "Well, can you think of anyone else, Daughter?"

_That deranged, fucking…_ Emma thought desperately, mind going a mile a minute. Did he _know_ about her? Was this some kind of twisted punishment—make her choose either Elsa's life or the mission—and, consequently, her own skin. She could reveal herself, and most likely be killed on the spot. Then all the work she'd done so far to bring these animals to justice would be for naught. They'd get away with everything, both in the past and whatever they were currently planning. Rumpelsteiger certainly wouldn't let an outsider get this close to them again once she was exposed. But how—how could she just let him kill an innocent woman, a _friend_?

"Emma," Elsa's hoarse voice broke through her conflicting thoughts. "Emma, don't worry about me. I've done what I needed to do, and—"—here Emma swore Elsa could see right through her—, "—I understand." She held Emma's gaze steadily. "Truly, I do. Please…there are more important things at stake than me."

Emma continued to look straight at Elsa, then to Rumpelsteiger looming behind her. Getting Elsa's go-ahead didn't make things any easier. Sweat beaded along her brow; her heart beat so rapidly, she thought it might erupt from her chest.

"We're _waiting_, dearie."

"No," she whispered at last, so softly she wasn't sure he'd heard. "No, I can't think of who else it might've been." She felt a single tear roll down her cheek.

Rumpelsteiger gave a curt nod, satisfied, then snatched a cushion off the loveseat nearest him, and placed it and the gun to the back of Elsa's head in one swift movement. It was all so sudden—a muffled _pop_, Elsa falling sharply forward as far as her restraints would allow—that for one naïve moment, Emma thought Rumpelsteiger had merely hit her with the butt of the pistol—until she saw the blood pooling in the now-dead woman's lap, running down from the wound through her forehead.

Rumpelsteiger had already turned away, wiping the barrel on the silencing cushion. He looked up at his audience. "Well? Shall I tell the cook to start supper?" he motioned towards Whale and Jefferson to follow before he started to stalk out of the room. Hans fell to his knees in front of him as he passed.

"Oh, thank you, dear sir, I—"

"As you're no longer of use to me, I suggest you make yourself scarce. If I ever see you again, mark my words, you'll meet the same fate." Hans nodded energetically, scrambling to his feet and running pell-mell from the room ahead of the other three.

A hand grasped her chin, turned her head from the grisly sight in front of her. "Emma?" Bae asked, frowning. "Come on, pet, buck up."

She could only stare at him glassily, feeling like every sensation was coming through a cotton barrier. Her knees started to buckle. Then everything went black.

* * *

It was dark when she next opened her eyes, looking about the room with unfocused eyes. She'd been brought up to the bedroom, the covers pulled up to her shoulders. Someone—the maid, no doubt—had slipped her into her long, gauzy, white nightgown. What—what had—? Then in a rush, the images started pouring back in, the confrontation, narrowly escaping a reveal, Elsa's—

Emma tried to push herself into a sitting position with her wobbily arms. Elsa was dead. Elsa was dead, and it was her fault. Had mere months knocked all street sense out of her? Putting the key back on the ring; what _had_ she been thinking? She should have done something else, anything else but that. But now it was too late, and despite the wrong person paying the price for it, Emma was sure she wasn't free from Rumpelsteiger's misgivings.

The acrid odor of burning plant suddenly stung her nostrils, and she swiveled to see Baelthazar in the corner of the room next to the wardrobe, a cigar sticking out the corner of his mouth. He grinned as her eyes met his.

"Superb, you're awake! Ready to put all this foolishness behind us?"

"How—how long was I—"

"Nearly eighteen hours, pet. Shouldn't frighten your family like that, you know. It's just plain impolite."

Family…Elsa had been family. More than the wretches she was bound to by marriage would ever be. She caught sight of an empty Scotch tumbler resting on her night table—had he just used her faint as an excuse to hole up, drinking and smoking for hours?—and snatched it up, whipping it in a blind rage at Bae's head. Despite her disorientation, her aim was still on point, though it seemed her speed had taken a hit, and the odious son-of-a-bitch ducked in time to let the glass shatter against the wall behind him.

Emma had risen to her knees at this point, the nightgown splaying out in an A shape between them. Her reaction was genuine, and she saw no reason not to express it—only a psychopath would remain devoid of emotion after what she'd witnessed. At the moment, she was too weary to try and be a good actress in basic human behavior.

Bae jumped up from his squat on the carpet. "What the deuce has gotten into you?!"

Emma shifted forward on her unsteady knees, until she was close enough to grasp one of the bedposts. "Into me? What's gotten into _you_? You just allowed your father to murder your cousin—in cold blood!"

He strode towards her, and Emma braced herself for a blow of some sort, but he only covered her hands on the bedpost with one of his, stroking them in a pacifying manner as though she were a mad dog. "Now, now, wife, I didn't allow anything, per se—this is my father's house after all, and he can attend to slights within its walls as he sees fit."

_Attend to slights_…. "Didn't—didn't you care for her at all?"

He shrugged at that, actually _shrugged_. "Certainly, but everything my father laid out was true. She was given a second chance, and squandered it recklessly. Traitors, my sweet"—his hand stopped its motion, pressing hers uncomfortably tight into the bedpost—"always get found out, you see."

* * *

Even though she'd been in a dead sleep for nearly a full day, Emma wanted nothing more than to burrow back under the covers—and stay there forever. But her presence downstairs was demanded—_asked_—for by Rumpelsteiger.

"You're concerning him," Bae had said frankly, arms crossed and mouth knitted up in priggish disapproval. "Do you want him to think you sympathize with an enemy of the family?"

Emma pressed her fingertips to her pounding temples. The dizziness and nausea hadn't let up; if anything, it had grown worse. "N-no, of course not. Just grant me a few minutes to change, and I'll be right down."

He nodded his approval, then suddenly stepped closer and ran a hand down her back. Emma suppressed a shiver, feeling goosebumps rising in its wake.

"Remember, my sweet," he said, lips curved into a smile despite his flat tone. "She's nothing to you anymore. To any of us." He clapped her on the shoulder and made for the door. "Unless you want to attract Father's ire, you'll just pretend like she never existed."

Emma stared after him for a moment, before pushing herself to a sitting position against the headboard. _Two more days_. Two more days, and she'd make it to her meeting at Headquarters, and demand that this whole operation be brought to a close, these animals to their knees. Yes, she was just the government's eyes and ears on the inside, but they had to have _some_ damning evidence from the party, and even if they didn't—now they had her eyewitness account of ruthless murder. Elsa's death couldn't go unpunished.

And speaking of which…Emma's gaze slid to the lamp next to her. Elsa had told her certain things would become clear, that it was up to her to get a message to her sister. She wasn't sure what exactly the recently deceased had been referring to, but if ever there was a time to contact family…. Emma pulled the lamp onto her lap, rummaged around the nightstand's top drawer to find a peso to use as a screwdriver.

The locket poured out with a soft rattle as it fell past the base. Emma inhaled a deep, fortifying breath, held it for a moment, then dug her thumbnail between the locket's two halves, and it opened with a soft click. In the left frame, a miniscule piece of paper had been folded and tucked securely within the photograph holder. She grasped at her now-messy knot of a hairdo, pulling out one of her pins, and pinched the center of the note together to pull it out. Even unfolded, it was still small, and Emma brought it nearly to the tip of her nose, squinting to read the spidery scrawl.

_Kopiene er levedyktig_

She frowned, then re-folded the note along the same creases, working it back into the frame the way she found it—whatever that meant would have to wait for her meeting with the brass. Only then did she glance at the right side.

It was a photo of two girls, one of them clearly a younger Elsa, who stood tall with less wrinkles on her forehead, a hint of a smile, and her hands clasped on another girl's shoulder. Emma finally focused on the other woman, and let out a horrified gasp. Yes, she was younger…and blonde…but Emma would recognize that wide, beaming smile she'd become familiar with over the past several months.

The image of Anna, her former maid, stared back out at her.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut, trying to gather her thoughts. On the surface, the women couldn't have been more different, but when she reflected further, it all made sense. Of course, the CIA and MI6 would want to protect their investment, and have someone shadow her within her living quarters, keep tabs more consistently than Killian could.

She pressed the heel of her palm to the throbbing in her head. They'd both been so kind to her…even if they'd had orders, surely their solicitous treatment towards her hadn't been a necessity. It had been so long since other women had treated her with something other than disdain, not sparing her even a cordial nod. And now the gentlest, bravest person she'd ever known had been killed, had died because of _her_. She might as well have pulled the trigger herself. And now she was tasked with breaking the news to the woman's sister. Another flip in her gut, and Emma tumbled out of the bed, hand clasped over her mouth, barely making it to the toilet before the meager contents of her stomach came roiling up.

She sat back on her haunches, arms wrapped around her middle, dazedly trying to sift through her overcrowded thoughts for some answers…but nothing was forthcoming. Elsa might've not harbored any hard feelings towards her at the end, but Emma doubted her sister would be so forgiving. Certainly flesh-and-blood would be less than understanding…if she couldn't even forgive herself.

* * *

**A/N: Another movie nod in this chap, in regards to Rumple's discovered motives. The movie's set later than this time period, so I made the story be kind of a possible precursor to it. Anyone know/care to guess?**


	11. Chapter 11

_Well readers, it's been longer than I'd wish to update this one. But I'm leaving the country in a week, so am assuming it'll be at least another month before the next installment. And, sorry: art imitates life, and this is one angsty segment! Hate to leave it like this for awhile, but you like semi-cliffhangers...right? :)_

* * *

After slipping into her pumps, Emma tottered to her vanity mirror, patting at her hairdo dazedly, trying to at least make it neat. The last thing she cared about right now was her appearance, but it would raise the jackals' senses if she didn't go around at least _looking_ as though she wasn't affected by recent events. She re-applied another coat of bright red to her lips; she'd been sick again just moments before. God, she hoped her nerves settled soon, this was really getting to be inconveni—

She stopped, mid-stroke. _Getting to be inconvenient?_ Well, she'd been sick three times, but surely it had to do with—no, the first time had happened before Elsa's murder, and each time, she hadn't felt any other symptoms of illness afterwards. And each time had happened shortly after she'd woken up from a nap or all-night slumber. _No, no, it's not possible, I've been so careful_…. _Haven't I_? Emma pressed a palm lightly to her abdomen, trying to recollect. Without a doubt she'd slipped in her diaphragm, unbeknownst to Baelthazar, every time he took her to bed. _Could it have failed? I suppose_—all at once, Emma dropped her lipstick with a noisy clatter on the countertop as a vivid memory flooded her: the day—or rather, the night—of Bae's proposal to her, when she'd gone to Killian's, certainly not expecting anything like…well, like what had happened. And foolishly thinking that something like accepting another man's marriage proposal, no matter the reason, would be enough to stop the current of _need_ that always seemed to flourish when it was just the two of them. And she most definitely had _not_ been prepared. Even so…wasn't just over three weeks a bit early? Remembrances of the last time she'd been in such a predicament, ten years ago now, began to filter into her tired mind—it had shown early then, too. Perhaps not quite as early, but it was certainly possible.

Heat started to prickle along her scalp; Emma dropped her face into her hands. "_Fuck_," she whimpered, smacking the heel of her palm painfully into her forehead. "Emma, you infernal dolt!" How could she have gotten so careless? This was truly the cherry on top of an already catastrophic sundae.

"Why so down, pet?" A pair of heavy hands dropped onto her shoulders, making Emma shriek. Ugh, that clod of a faux-husband had crept in on cats' feet. When her head jerked up to meet Bae's eyes in the mirror, he let out an idiotic chuckle at her half-applied makeup.

"Good God, don't you look a fright!" He snorted again, and started back for the door. "Planning on finishing that before you go out in public, I hope."

"_Yes_," she gritted out, curling her fingertips into the vanity's edges. "I'm going to the downtown shops shortly."

"Dames and shopping," he sniggered, then suddenly turned back when he reached the doorway. "I'd suggest picking up more face powder. You're looking a bit sallow, and you don't want Father to think you're still blubbering over Elsa, do you?"

Emma smiled distractedly at him, trying to imagine Elsa's mortal exit wound between his eyes, until he finally left.

She turned back and started to stroke the color on over her trembling lips, breathing in and out in a slow, measured rhythm . _Think of the meeting, think of the locket_. Best to focus on one plight at a time—she couldn't have come this far only to break down now.

* * *

Killian had maneuvered himself closest to the door, so he could greet Emma first. It never went well when Mills tried to get her goat right off the bat. Things between them would devolve regardless, but he could at least postpone it, plus sit near her for the meeting's duration. Neither Humbert nor Mills had slunk in from their respective corners of the office, so Killian posted himself at the window, raising one of the blinds to watch for the Swan.

Prompt as usual, she came up the walkway only a few minutes later. He still waited for the signaled knock on the door, just to tease her. But all thoughts of teasing left him as she stumbled inside and met his gaze.

"I _know_ you saw me coming, you spook—couldn't have just let me in for once?"

Even though things had been tense between them lately, Killian couldn't help his hand gliding towards her cheek. "Swan, what's happened? You've got dark circles under your eyes."

She looked down, busying herself with removing her gloves as she lowered into an easy chair opposite his. "I've never been married before, but isn't it customary for newlyweds to be suffering from a lack of sleep?"

She was trying to goad him, he knew it, but it still stung. He clenched his jaw, while his good hand squeezed the false one tightly. "Don't play with me, darling. Something's troubling you. Why, I—"

"Started without us, _Hook_?" Regina waltzed in, banging the door open behind her, swinging it into Graham's face. Sitting down behind the desk, she flipped open a folder. "Well, we've got a lot to fill you in on today, Mrs. Gold, so let's get—"

Emma's fists clenched over the chair arms. "That's _not_ my name. And I think you lot need to hear what I've got to say first."

Regina turned, open-mouthed, to Graham. "Of all the nerve—"

"Proceed then, Miss Blanchard," Graham said peaceably, settling back.

In a steady voice, she proceeded to describe the days leading up to Elsa's death, including her misstep with the key. At the end, Regina still had her arms folded in an unimpressed gesture (though her customary cigarette dangled from her parted lips), Graham furiously rubbed at his creased brow, and Killian leaned as close as he could get without falling out of his chair, forehead knitted with worry.

No wonder she looked like she'd been dragged through a hellish mire; she truly _had_. Despite his warning, Killian could tell Emma had stubbornly gone about her business and become close with the slain woman. No wonder she had purplish crescents under her eyes that makeup couldn't hide, a twitch at the corner of her mouth, and was trying and failing to control the shaking of her hands by entwining them together. He wished the other two weren't there; despite all their difficulty—and his jealousy—recently, he wanted her to know she'd always be safe. He wanted to curl himself around her like a protective cloak, feel all that visible brittleness melt away as she relaxed into him. From the minute Killian Jones had had Emma Blanchard's file thrust under his nose, she'd had a protector for life—whether the bloody headstrong lass liked it or not. He snapped back to the current situation as Emma clapped her hands sharply onto her thighs.

"So," Emma breathed out, sounding confident. "I don't think I'm going out on a limb here in thinking this has finally cooked Rumpelsteiger's goose? You've got a firsthand account of blood on his hands. He can be arrested, and—"

Regina made an exasperated tsk, slid a new cigarette between her wine-hued lips. "On the contrary, Mrs. Gold. You were negligent, but the woman in question was never formally aligned with either the CIA or MI6. Her sister was put in place as a pair of extra eyes and ears, for as long as she was able, but Miss—"

"W-what? But you _knew_ about her!" Emma turned a beseeching look on Graham. "Agent Humbert, you had to've known—"

He looked down, ruffling his hair nervously. "We—Agent Mills and I—knew what Elsa was about, yes. But Agent Mills is correct: she was never properly engaged as a mole."

"What the hell does _that_ matter?!" Emma exploded. "She was helping us!"

"What lay people choose to do with their own time is of no concern to this mission," Regina said, leaning back and blowing out a perfect smoke ring. "Perhaps he suspects you, perhaps not. Either way, I get the impression he wants to keep you around."

"I really don't see how you could conclude that! If he's willing to kill a member of his own family, then he's more than capable of—"

"Capable, yes. But he knows your death will arouse more notice, and possible retribution, than a woman who was little known outside their Nazi circle."

Emma thumped her head against the back of the chair, frustrated at the nonchalance coming off the others. "I wouldn't take all this lightly; Mills, he's an incredibly dangerous man! He killed an innocent woman right in front of me!"

"_Innocent_?" Regina snorted incredulously. "I think we have very different definitions of the word, _Mrs. Gold_. Then again, you probably left the world of education behind before you got to that chap—"

Killian cleared his throat warningly. "Get on with it, Mills."

She narrowed her eyes, flicking her ash into the tray on the desk. "He killed one of his own, Mrs. Gold, one of his own who just happened to agree to turn on him. It's of no concern to this organization."

"_Stop_ calling me that, goddamnit. And you know that's not true—she only went back into the family fold to dig up more dirt on them. She was a fucking _Resistance_ fighter!"

"Don't jab at the deceased for using the methods necessary, Regina," Graham said evenly, cutting off whatever retort she'd been about to bark out.

Regina's eyes glittered angrily, no doubt from being chastised in front of Emma. "Yes, I've heard all about the 'necessary methods' these field agents utilize, claiming they have no choice," she finally replied, lips quirking into a mean little smirk.

Emma leaned forward. "And just what the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean—what did you think would have to happen when I married—"

"My, my, I do hope you aren't spouting off that plebian vocabulary of yours in front of Junior and Senior; they might start getting the wrong idea." She half-turned towards Killian. "Jones, didn't you spank that out of her during training?"

Killian barred his arm across the arms of Emma's chair, just as she started to stand. Though completely justified in his mind, no good would come of the mess that would ensue if Emma tried to lunge over the desk and wrap her hands around Regina's scrawny neck. Regina gave Emma a wary glance, but kept her mouth closed.

Emma let out a huff then, and her hand rose to her throat. "If straight murder isn't enough against Rumpelsteiger, maybe _this_ will interest you blockheads. I've—I've got some kind of evidence," she continued, unbuttoning the top two buttons of her blouse, and sliding her hand beneath the fabric while Regina and Killian stared in confusion, and Graham glanced down, respectfully, at his folded hands. She rooted around her brassiere obliviously for a moment, before withdrawing again with her fist closed around something. "I'm sure it's important. Elsa had me hide it."

She flipped the extracted small, round disc quickly at Regina, who caught it instinctively. Then, seeming to remember where it'd been, stared down at it in her palm, lip curling disgustedly. Killian and Emma mirrored each others' smirks at that.

Regina cracked open the clasp, and snatched the little slip of paper out unceremoniously, unfolding it. "Well, _that_ helps," she snapped, waving it in the air. "It's in Danish, or Finnish, or—"

"I'd guess Norwegian," Emma said with controlled calm, cupping her hands in exaggerated prissiness over her knee. "As that's what Elsa…was."

Before Regina could shoot a retaliatory quip at her, Graham had tugged it from her grasp. "Correct, Miss—Missus—er, Emma. And it says"—his eyes roved over the small print several times—"It says "The copies are viable"."

Emma's brows rose towards her hairline. "Copies of what? What in tarnation is _that_ supposed to mean?" When she noticed the unsurprised expressions surrounding her, she turned to Killian. "_You_ know what's afoot here?"

Again, he wanted to hold her hand, touch her in any way so badly, because he knew the whole explanation would sound positively looney tunes. By the end of Graham's story about the Führer clones most likely being cooked up right under her nose, and potential reasons for it, Emma's face was a stony mask. Killian's hand raised a few inches of its own accord before he remembered himself, and let it drop slowly back to his chair arm before it could drift over towards her.

"He's going to kill me," Emma stated, the words coming out sluggishly. "He's batshit insane, and he's going to kill me before this is over. What more do you people need before raiding the joint? Me staggering out the front door with one of Whale's vials in my fist and my throat cut?"

A guttural growl rumbled in Killian's throat, and Graham held up his hands placatingly. "Now, Miss Blanchard, that isn't—"

"I want a gun."

Regina snorted loudly. "Impossible. Everything would be lost if that was discovered on your person. Not to mention I don't trust you any further than I could spit."

"I couldn't care less about your untalented tongue—though more's the pity for any lover of yours." Killian coughed violently into his jacket sleeve.

Graham took the opportunity while Regina's mouth hung open like a gasping trout to explain the course of action the three of them had been contemplating. "Now, Emma, this actually segues into something I needed to bring up. You see, you have a choice here."

Emma leaned forward, intrigued. She couldn't recall having any kind of choice—other than her initial agreement to be bait—since this whole carnival ride had started.

"Do I, now?"

"You see," Graham said with a tremulous, kind smile, "I realize you were briefed on the kind of perilous undertaking you were getting into. However, this level of utter…derangement was never even a consideration. Though what you've gone through thus far is commendable, it may be prudent for both governments to start considering…other methods of task completion."

Emma tapped her heel impatiently on the linoleum. "What're you getting at, Agent Humbert?"

"What I mean is, due to the nature of Rumpelsteiger's…long term plans, I've thought—well, Agent Jones and I—that perhaps this is all too much to toss you back into the middle of. The objective's changed—this isn't merely about bringing a war criminal to justice. Now it's about stopping a whole new threat. We have to proceed delicately. You can be removed without a trace—maybe arrange it to look like a kidnapping—"

"Now wait one hot minute there, Humbert," Emma broke in. "That's it? "The objective's changed"? What about all those people back in Europe that died because of the Rumpelsteigers? What about Elsa? This could all end quickly with—"

"That's not the order we have, Miss Blanchard."

"Emma," Killian said. "I know 'delicate' isn't exactly your style, but this isn't as black-and-white situation as it once was. The CIA and MI6 want to know exactly what his future plans are—"

"Who _cares_?" Emma snarled, fully aware she was getting a whine in her tone. "He's—they're—pure evil." She glared at them all when she got no response. "So that's it, then? I haven't got a choice except to—"

"Of course you do," Killian interrupted. "But we—"

"You_ gentlemen_," Regina interjected.

"—just assumed you'd—"

"Never mind your peabrained assumptions!" Regina barked. "As I've said, it would be a massive waste of resources and money at this point to pull even a flunkey like _her_ out, after all the training she's been provided and her wealth of inside knowledge on the Rumpelsteiger clique. If she stays…."

Emma began to tune out. So that was that; it was all about saving a lousy buck and some morbid fascination by the upper echelon to—what? Steal Whale's intelligence on these corrupt biological matters? See what else Rumpelsteiger was capable of? If she had felt disillusioned before, the façade was completely shattered now. There wouldn't be any dramatic storming of the estate, ending with the Rumpelsteigers cursing loudly as they were dragged off by vigilante justice, or a short 'n sweet shot to the heart like the crime flicks she'd snuck in to watch. Somewhere in her daydreams, hers and Killian's faces had started to replace those of the actors, an arm wrapped around each other's waist while their other hand intertwined on the butt of the gun, watching with relish as Rumpelsteiger, Bae, and their cronies pleaded for unearned mercy.

Emma bit the inside of her lip until she tasted copper. Hadn't he proven at this point that she'd been nothing but a fleeting amusement and useful instrument to be bandied about? Well, she was the foolish one, reviving her long-dead hopes like that. But even now, she could still try and bring about some kind of comeuppance, with or without these peons' blessing. Apparently no one else was going to stand up for the atrocities of the past. She'd always had the possibility of personal sacrifice in the back of her mind, and a couple days ago, she wouldn't have cared how things ended—as long as she took those stains against humanity down, too. But now there was also the _possible_ matter of…her hovering hand stopped just short of cupping her still flat abdomen. No, it was too much to dwell on altogether. She would first do right by the dead—and her conscience. The future after that blurred; she needed to take on a single dilemma at a time.

"Put a cork in it, Mills," Emma declared suddenly, ending the other woman's still-ongoing tirade. "If I've got a choice, I'm staying on."

"What?!" Killian and Graham spluttered.

The cigarette fell right out of Regina's mouth. "You…want to continue your mission?"

An almost eerie calm had descended over Emma, and she took out her compact and lipstick for an unnecessary touch-up, hoping she was pulling off a casual manner. "Naturally. I'm a professional on the up-and-up, and I want to see this through to the end."

"So you're a businesswoman now?" Regina sneered.

Emma shrugged. "I take pride in my work, whatever the field. And even you practically said it—you _need_ me in there."

Killian slammed his fist down on the chair arm, making them all jump. "_No_! I refuse—I _forbid_ this."

Regina rolled her eyes. "On whose authority, Jones? She's made her choice, nobody's forcing her."

"It's nothing but a death sentence, going back in there," he hissed.

"That's her prerogative."

Emma stared daggers at him. "Doubting my abilities now, too, Agent Jones?"

Killian ignored that, turned his furious glare on Graham. "Humbert?"

Graham studiously rubbed at a spot on his trousers, not meeting Killian's gaze. "You know how I feel about this, Killian. But Reg—Agent Mills is correct: the way things lie now, it's Miss Blanchard's right to go or stay."

"And I'm staying!" Emma reiterated.

"Swan, be reasonable," he said. "This is all still new to you, and the—"

"Don't speak to me as though I'm a child, _Hook_," Emma said coldly. "I know what I'm agreeing to."

Regina gave a fake-sounding cough. "Though you're complying with how I've wanted all this to play out"—she flashed a triumphant smile to Killian and Graham—"I _am_ curious." She gave her cigarette a flick. "Why _do_ you even care, Miss Blanchard?" she asked in a bored tone. "You're not a Jew, Slav, or gypsy, you didn't have any family killed in the War—none you know of, anyway. Well?"

"_Why_?" Emma stared back at Regina, feeling her fury mount epically fast. "Because despite what your organizations thinks of me as—a whore, a handy tool—I'm in this now for all the innocent people these—these lunatics exterminated back during the war. The ones caught and killed in the crosshairs, like Elsa, whom no one else seems to give a flying fig about! I'm doing this so a hullabaloo like _that_ won't happen again, anywhere! I don't give a fuck what else they've planned for the world or if both American and British governments simultaneously explode tomorrow! I may not be the kind of savior they show in the pictures, Agent Mills, but a _real_ savior doesn't do something with profit in mind—I was young once, I know all the fairytales. So I'm sticking with it, but damn your reasons."

She stood up a little straighter, pulled at the bottom of her suit jacket. Regina was stunned silent and looking sufficiently shocked enough for Emma to exit on a high note. "Now, if you'll excuse me—the lot of you wretches—I ought to get back to hindering the plans of a resurging Third Reich and"—she glanced quickly at Killian—"spreading my legs for my Nazi husband." Killian and Graham stood automatically as she did. She gave a sharp nod to Regina, and brushed past an open-mouthed Killian without looking at him. "Good day to you all."

"Don't be getting a hero complex now," Regina snapped. "You muck this up, and I'll kill you myself."

"_Regina_—" Graham began warningly, but Emma had already flung herself out of that cloying atmosphere, stumbling into the street.

Emma didn't know where she was headed—certainly not back to the mansion—only knew that she needed to be alone for a quick second. She'd only made it a few buildings down from headquarters before a rough yank on her elbow found her with her back pressed against an alley's brick wall, facing an incensed-looking Killian.

She pushed at his unyielding chest. "Scram, will you!"

He kept a firm grip on her shoulders. "Just what the bloody hell d'you think you're up to, Swan?"

"I could ask you the same! Why—why didn't you stand up for my decision in there? I thought—"

"You mean support you offering yourself, essentially, as a lamb to the slaughter? Afraid I can't do that, lass."

Her hands tightened into fists; Emma waited until she was sure her voice wouldn't shake. "I thought you were on my side," she gritted out. "But it seems I was wrong, like I've been before." She tried for a casual shrug, though it came out like a forward slump. "Even if I survive only to be tossed back into the streets after the smoke clears, I've got a chance to make a difference. I suppose I shouldn't have expected any different—you're just like all the rest."

"The devil is that supposed to mean?" He fisted a hand in his hair. "Emma, you truly—"

"You don't believe I can help! Be honest, Jones, you were given an assignment and simply made the best out of the circumstances. You never took me seriously—I just happened to fit the attributes the government wanted, and you saw a skirt you could win over. You always knew what I was, Killian, but when you saw me for the first time after I married…well, I saw it in your eyes. Your toy was ruined. Whether I come through this or not, I'm going to be discarded—by the CIA, MI6, and _you_."

His touch gentled swiftly, enough that she could shove him off if she wanted to, but Emma kept her stance still and her indignant gaze firmly on him. He couldn't have looked more shocked than if she'd socked him in his pretty face.

"That's…that's not fair, Swan," he finally croaked out. "You can't really think that of me."

"Do I look like I'm funning you?"

Killian shook his head. "If I don't want you going back into that nest of vipers, don't you think I'd want you taken care of? I'm nothing if not—"

"A gentleman? Right, always a gentleman—I gathered that. I've also already told you I don't want your damn charity, or guilt, or what-have-you."

"I'll speak to Graham again, about post-operative arrangem—"

Now she did step away, moving towards the street again. "Do what you want. I'm not expecting anything except drawing the short straw in life, once again." She started walking, and turned when he remained silent. He practically had a stormcloud hovering over his head; his brow furrowed deeply and his eyes had gone the shade of cobalt.

She gave a haughty toss of her head, more flippant than she felt. In truth, her stomach sank. "Guess I'll see you next week. _If_ I'm still alive."

Emma bent her head as she hurried along the pavement in a random direction. When she felt the tears start to run, she lowered her head to avoid strange looks from passersby. Once it became clear from a lack of mirroring footsteps that Killian hadn't followed her, she ducked into the next alleyway she came across, pressing her forehead to the stones.

What to do? She chanced a slide of her hand against her stomach. If luck was on her side for once, she would be free and clear before she started to show. Then maybe…maybe she could go straight to Graham and appeal to the obviously tenderhearted agent, and pass off the baby as Baelthazar's. Surely he would take pity on her, would probably be horrified that she'd been left in such a state from the mission and in wanting to keep things quiet, set her up in some nondescript suburbia to roost. Just her…her and Killian's child. A reminder of how it had felt, however briefly, to be in love. Good god, now wasn't the time to start getting sentimental. She could handle this, had handled worse. She didn't need a man, especially some international man-about-town like Killian, staying with her out of pity.

She pushed that niggling little voice in the corner of her brain away, the one that kept echoing a variation of Killian's words: "_That's not fair. _You're_ not being fair_."

* * *

He trudged back to Headquarters, dragging his feet as though they each weighed a ton. It was a small comfort to swing the door open and find Regina gone. Graham was hunched over the desk, re-filing the findings they'd discussed that afternoon. He looked up.

"Killian? What's happened, man? You look as though you aged as much in ten minutes as the 70 year Glenlivet in my hidden drawer."

Killian ran his good hand down his face. "She's the most bullheaded wench I've ever known."

Graham attempted a pursed-face disapproval befitting a senior agent. "You got involved, and it's gone south. Well, you knew—"

Killian held up a warning finger. "Don't, mate. I'm warning you. I haven't said a word about your liaison with the she-demon; don't rub my face in this."

His co-agent dropped into the chair across from him. "I'm sorry, Killian. Really, you got on so well for months. I s'pose a situation like this is enough for any—"

"She hates me," Killian burst out. "Believes I think her an imbecile, incompetent, and a disposable piece of arse." He stopped until the prickling in his throat subsided. "Nothing—nothing could be further from the truth."

Graham placed his chin on his palm, giving Killian a keen stare.

Killian scowled back. "What's your bloody problem now?"

"Do you love her?"

The other man let out a low sigh, fiddled with the left metal thumb. It was probably such a simple thing for any other two people, but he and Emma…he tried to explain as best he could.

"Humbert, I've…I've been alone a long time. Seen things and done things I'm not proud of. Risked my life without a care, because I'd already lost everything."

Graham nodded in understanding. The men had worked together almost since Killian had begun at MI6. Graham had learned most of Killian's backstory through the years and with plenty of patience and benevolence on his part.

"I haven't been living for anything, Humbert. Not for the job, not for extracurriculars, and especially not for any other person. But since I've known Emma…." He trailed off, was silent for so long Graham thought he was having a stroke of some sort.

"Killian? Since you've known Emma…what?"

"I've realized I haven't gone and become some completely empty, shriveled vessel. Because I couldn't feel…what I do for her if that was the case."

* * *

**A/N: Hopefully this is somewhat cohesive &amp; makes sense; been feeling off my game lately, but finally thought this part was ready.**


	12. Chapter 12

_Yes, I'm still alive and updating this fic. The past few months have been stressful &amp; tumultuous, but I'm finally getting back to things I enjoy doing, like writing. I suppose this fic is mostly a labor of love at this point. There's probably another 2-3 chapters in me, I figure. Well, I've been gone awhile, but hopefully the length makes up for it!_

* * *

He stepped back from the second floor window, crossing to his armchair. _Verdammt_, the heinous little thorn-in-the-side was back. Rumpelsteiger sighed heavily, feeling far older than his years. It would make matters _so much simpler_ if a rogue taxi were to mow her down on one of these visits to market, which he would now bet were visits to whichever intelligence agency she was serving.

His gnarled fingers curled even further over his cane's head, until the tips turned white with the pressure. The traitorous trollop needed to be dealt with, and soon. His foolish son's resistance wouldn't bar Rumpelsteiger from getting her out of the way somehow, but it would certainly help if his regard was gone completely. He'd taken the necessary steps, but there wasn't a sign of its success yet. The girl was obviously a deceptive little thing, though not as clever as she—or her employers—thought. Nobody, _nobody_, pulled one over on Rumpelsteiger. It was time to start fraying her nerves; mentally or physically, she would be done for in no time. Either would work to rid her as an obstacle, and the fools she reported to would find no tangible evidence of culpability on his part. His ruthlessness and cunning were legendary; prisoners used to _beg_ for physical harm rather than be subjected to his interrogations. He had been feared on both sides of the fence, and now he was _so close_ to regaining what had been lost. With Viktor's corrupted science, he could rally his fellow displaced expatriates and restore confidence in his leadership abilities. Then, God willing, he could leave this heathen country, and reestablish a united Nazi front back in Germany where it belonged. And then branch out from there…. A rare smile twisted his thin lips before he was brought back to the present, pressing them tightly together. The insipid little woman practically _reeked_ of rookie status—and the high 'n mighty Americans and Brits thought to add insult to injury by not only assuming one such as _he_ could be brought to heel, but by someone like _her_? Oh, he would make an example of the bitch, all right—and anyone who tried to stop him.

He eyed his desk drawer again, one pair of fingers starting to drum on the opposite hand. His son might be an asinine wastrel, but to get his complete cooperation—and any possible loyalty towards the girl dissolved—he was actually counting on his baser instincts to prevail. And by the looks of Emma Blanchard's haggard appearance (he would _never_ consider her associated with the great name of Rumpelsteiger) these past few days, he would guess that they were. He almost felt sorry for her, having to accept his loutish son's advances. A high titter escaped him. Well, _almost_.

In the meantime, he had his other plan to enact. Baelthazar couldn't be completely counted on to do his unsuspecting part in a timely manner, and it was well past time to start delivering upon his promise to turn the tables on the woman who'd been sent to destroy the Rumpelsteiger comeback.

Oh yes…she'd regret the day she'd agreed to trifle with the likes of him.

* * *

_Well that's that_, Emma thought miserably, swiping the back of her hand roughly across her mouth. She pulled herself up from her crouch in front of the toilet. The nausea had gone on too long, without any other symptoms, for it to be anything other than goldarned Hook Junior deciding to set up shop in her womb. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she couldn't muster any _real_ anger; it was her own fault, after all, not to mention…she was surprisingly, probably to her detriment, warming to the idea. She shouldn't even be thinking about a future with this tyke, not until she got her own hide out of this dangerous pickle. Still….

Emma did a quick, skipping walk with her index and middle finger over her midsection. "Just me and you now, kid. I hope you know how to hang on; it's probably going to get bumpy." She sat back on her haunches. "Well, _bumpier_. I mean, it's certainly been no picnic so far, but—" She stopped abruptly. What the hell was she doing; she might as well have been talking to herself for all it looked like to an observer. And _that_ wouldn't do at all—she'd either have her predicament found out and be watched like a hawk from then on, or Rumpelsteiger would try and commit her to the loony bin. Neither was appealing, to say the least.

Just focus on getting through the wringer, Emma thought firmly to herself. Based on the phone call she'd made yesterday, she was to come into headquarters for her next meeting at the end of the week. Unfortunately, she'd had to speak to Regina on this occasion, who'd only ambiguously alluded to "keeping her eyeballs peeled in the meantime." Well, there was no getting back into the wine cellar now; it had been nerve-wracking to get the keys the first time, and now there always seemed to be one member or another of the domestic staff milling about the corridor to Rumpelsteiger's quarters, which Emma would bet her bottom dollar on that it was no coincidence.

She felt a rebellious little zeal zip through her chest that she had the intelligence on something that was, for the moment, solely hers. And it looked like a lovely day to take her small, nesting secret to the park and enjoy a book. Emma slipped her necessities into her pocketbook, lastly stooping down to her nightstand drawer for the ring of keys she'd gotten from Glass. Unnecessary, really, to take them everywhere, but it somehow gave her more of a sense a responsibility and security. But today—

Emma jumped up from her crouch, clapping a hand over her mouth so the shriek in her throat couldn't escape. There was a new key on the ring—and it looked _very_ familiar. But no, it couldn't be, that was _impossible_….

Gingerly, she turned the new addition about. It was secured in the midst of the other housekeys, not even tacked on at one end. It looked exactly like the wine cellar key, the one she was sure would be forever burned into her memory. There was no mistaking it…but there was only _one_. But why….

Well, there was nothing else to do but go down and prove herself wrong. It would almost be better to prove herself to have a faulty memory than…no, first things first. It was still early morning, and she went down the stairs on bare feet to keep as quiet as possible. There was one moment when she had to duck behind a pillar as Glass strode by, but she was soon down the next set of stairs—and in front of the wine cellar.

Yes, there was no mistaking it, the dull metal wording of the brand matching on both lock and key. She swallowed thickly, fitted the key to the lock, and turned—to no avail. What? She gave it another twist, but still nothing budged. Now panic set in; she certainly couldn't be caught around here, looking like she was trying to pick her way into Rumpelsteiger's prized cellar, especially after the party debacle. Emma slipped out the door leading to the garden, and sat heavily onto a wrought-iron bench, looking down at the impostor. Someone had to've gone to a great deal of trouble to make her think she had a key to the cellar, copy or no. For what—a warning? A sick joke? Did Rumpelsteiger still suspect her of underhanded dealings? She highly doubted it was her husband; he was neither smooth nor clever enough to pull this stunt. Well, she thought decidedly, getting back to her feet. She'd go about her business as though she hadn't noticed a thing. Her sharp tongue had nearly blown things before, but if Rumpelstieger was going to try this kind of underhanded needling, it would be best to play the empty-headed socialite more than ever.

And then, perhaps everything would end right there.

* * *

The key had disappeared the next day, right after she'd gone to freshen up after going through the dusty streets to pick through fruit at the sidewalk stands. Her stomach flip-flopped when she came out of the bathroom and started putting her things away. Rumpelsteiger—or whoever was doing this on his behalf—probably hadn't had any qualms about going through her things before, but now it was blatantly obvious. Emma was glad at least that Agent Humbert had kept the locket she'd brought in—no matter how clever her hiding spots had been, it seemed no stone was being left unturned now. The locket's discovery would've no doubt been the end of any faux-niceties on the part of Rumpelsteiger and his goons. But, she wondered as she tucked herself into bed that night next to a drunk and passed out Bae, why was he toying with her this way? Emma doubted it was to spare his son's feelings. It could be mere insanity….. Emma worried and pondered so long that before she knew it, light was filtering through the brocade curtains, and she couldn't recall falling asleep at all.

Bae turned over with an inelegant grunt. "Emma. Silly pet, you aren't supposed to leave those on the whole night. What time did you come to bed?"

"Hmm?" Emma fought the customary annoyance she had merely by being in close proximity to the clod. "Left what on?"

"_Those_," he nodded up towards the headboard, and Emma glanced back to see the wall sconces flanking it burning brightly in the dim room. Her brow furrowed, trying to recall.

"But—but I didn't even turn them on, dear. I'm sure of—"

"Nonsense, pet. It was pitch black when I came up last night—"

_And probably pitch black beforehand_, she thought. A servant had no doubt carted his snoring carcass up when his head had hit the card table.

Curious, but giving in was less painful than attempting to argue with such a fool. "I apologize, sweet." She started to pull herself up by the headboard to turn down the gas on the one closest to her, but Bae pulled her back down by her ankle.

"Not just yet," he said with his stupid smirk. "I'm enjoying your warmth. You're so much more _warm_ and _soft_ lately." He pulled her closer with an arm around her waist.

"Am I?" Emma fought the nausea that always swept through her at his touch, amplified now by the morning sickness threatening to reveal itself, which she'd managed to hide up to that point. She forced a laugh. "Surely you're imagining things."

"Nuh-uh," he mumbled, smushing his face into her hair. "And _these_"—he reached around to roughly fondle her right breast. "Have they not become larger?"

Emma pressed her lips together to choke her yelp back down; a display of discomfort would be queer. The brute regularly manhandled her body, and she didn't want to let on that certain parts had grown…tender.

She only eeked out another fake laugh. "Just like a man, hoping his wife's assets grew overnight."

"Wishful thinking, I suppose," he conceded, swatting her smartly on the rump as she finally pulled herself from his grasp and moved to get up. Emma gritted her teeth as she made for the bathroom and her quiet session of morning sickness. _Swine_.

* * *

That morning's confusion turned out not to be an isolated incident, however. Over the next couple days, the wall sconces flared to life, sometimes even in front of her very eyes, when she hadn't gone near them. Nor was it regulated to the boudoir; the phenomenon seemed to follow her from the bedroom to the library to even the hall alcove—and only when she was unaccompanied. She could only avoid the manor for so long each day; once the deep oranges and pinks of dusk started to streak the sky, it was an unspoken order to be home for the evening meal. Emma began to dread heading back from whatever errand she'd thought up when she set out earlier, wondering just when the other shoe was going to drop. What was the old coot's _game_, getting up to such juvenile larks? Though the antics couldn't be dismissed that easily; Emma had to admit he was getting under her skin, and she was starting to feel the strain of steadying her expression and hands before she walked through the front door every late afternoon. Much as Emma wanted to believe in a supernatural explanation, her harsh upbringing hadn't fostered any consideration for fantasy. And, in this instance, she knew any evil presence in the house was very much of this world. She just didn't understand the why of it.

Another day done, with one Rumpelsteiger leering across the dining table at her and the other groping beneath her garter strap as she tried to force at least half of the day's dinner down her gullet. Even after every morning's bout of illness, red meat had started to turn her stomach, both the smell and especially the taste of it. She could swear the odious elder Rumpelsteiger just knew what she was keeping from them all; why would he have had some form of steak three nights in a row, then? Emma gave her head a little shake. That was just getting ridiculous; there were some things even a man like him couldn't possibly know.

She climbed up to the boudoir wearily, knowing sleep would again be fleeting or not come at all. At least tomorrow would be the meeting at Headquarters, and she could let everyone know that things might need to be…_expedited_. Surely even that hellion who had it in for her couldn't ignore blatant, malicious trickery. Even seeing Regina's mug was a welcome alternative to the uneasy atmosphere that surrounded her these days. Emma only feared all these distractions were leading to something far more unpleasant.

* * *

By the day before her next meeting with the brass, Emma was feeling a strain in the area between her shoulder blades. Her efforts to appear cool and calm were manifesting into full-body discomfort, along with the continued morning sickness. Though she was still feeling disheartened by their dismissive attitudes from the last meeting, at this point anything but staying within the confines of the manor would do.

Bae had already made himself scarce, loping about the grounds, idly kicking the croquet balls across the lawn, or using a mallet to try and knock one of them into some unsuspecting cat on the fence if it was unlucky enough to come into his line of vision. Emma drew the curtains closed again, her lips pressed together tightly, and sat down at the vanity to powder her face. Her pale complexion practically glowed back at her in the mirror, the purple circles under her eyes grown more noticeable. She hurriedly picked up a puff to swipe some powder under them.

Emma gave herself a small head shake. "You look horrendous," she lectured her reflection firmly. "And if you look horrendous, they'll be even more suspicious. And that'd be very…bad for you. And what's bad for you is bad for _them_." She gave a quick, fond little rub to her abdomen, then looked back up. "You _have_ to tell Killian. If they found out…." The subtle changes were still only noticeable to her, but the longer she was here, soon enough they'd be obvious to Bae. Her looks were important to him, and even a fool such as he would detect a growing swell. Emma shuddered at the thought. Of course the household would think it was her husband's, but she'd probably be shadowed even more if they knew of her condition. And then her chances of getting out of here safe 'n sound would go from probable to zilch. Well…she hoped her chances were still probable.

A wave of dizziness swept over her, and since Baelthazar was out of the way for the time being, going back to bed for a bit wouldn't raise any eyebrows. Emma's head was a mere inch from fully hitting the pillow, when the sun caught a gleam upon it. She pulled back a tad—and felt like something slimy and cold had just been dropped down the back of her nightgown. Hairs—three long, silvery-blonde hairs, to be exact lay precisely in the center of her pillow. Hair far to long and light of shade to be hers, but still familiar. But Elsa had never even been up to these chambers, Emma was sure of it. Was one of those goons attempting to rattle her further—but no, this was just _ghoulish_, if that were true. Surely not…. Emma reached out hesitantly to touch a strand with her fingernail.

"Problem here?"

Emma shrieked, rolling quickly onto her back to face the intruder. Only her clod of a husband, eyebrows knit in confusion. Or was it? Did he know about this? She wouldn't have guessed him to be the one for mind games, but she ought to know what and who she was dealing with. It was probably risky, but—

"Do you know anything about this?" Emma pointed accusingly at the delicate wisps laid out, and Bae walked closer. A dark, hard expression passed over his face, so quickly Emma wasn't quite sure it had happened.

Then his customary addle-brained leer was back. He made a show of stooping over her gesturing hand. "About what, pet? Are you shedding?"

She didn't even attempt a smile. "It's not mine. I'd think it being from your cousin-who-shall-not-be-named was quite evident."

"Don't be silly," he said, tone dismissive. "You're blonde, too—"

"I'm not _that_ blonde!" She ducked away from a condescending pat he tried to land on her shoulder.

Bae blew out an irritated breath. "I don't know what you're implying, pet. Perhaps the old girl came up during that large gala, or one of our dinners to touch herself up, use your hairbrush? Isn't that something dames do, help themselves to each others' cosmetics?"

It was ludicrous to think Elsa would've ventured to a second-story private bedroom to reapply her face and brush out her hair, or that remnants would still be floating around weeks later. But it did sound just like a typical conclusion she'd come to expect from the man, and it put him above her suspicions.

Emma smiled wanly at him. "I'm sorry, dear. I'm just—it's just that…emotional time again," she finished with a pointed look, fighting her blush at using her courses as an excuse. But Baelthazar relished any reminder of women being the weaker sex, and he'd surely drop the conversation afterwards.

He didn't disappoint. "What a silly goose you can be," Bae said with an indulgent grin, finally dropping that disdainful pat on her shoulder as he made to leave.

* * *

_Next Day, Headquarters_

Her heart sank when she realized Agent Mills was the only person in the room upon entering. She would have rather spoken to a complete stranger about the matter, anyone but Regina. But this was more important than her preferences, and beggars couldn't be choosers.

Emma took the seat that Regina nodded to, a little _whoosh_ of air escaping her as she gathered her confidence. Might as well dive right into it, she decided. "I'm…I'm seeing things."

"Seeing things?" Regina's eyes narrowed, and she reached over to flick the cap off an onyx Montblanc. She touched the tip briefly to her tongue. "What sort of things? Did you note them down? Have you brought the account with you? We ought—"

Any other time, Emma would've made some salty quip about an American agent using a German product in these times, but now she only stared dully ahead. "No, no, not like that," Emma pressed a palm to her damp forehead. "I mean to say, I'm seeing…things that can't possibly be so."

Regina squinted at her, then lowered her pen. "Superb," she sighed in annoyance. "The civilian's got bats roosting in the belfry now. Just what we _can't_ afford."

"I'm _not_ mad," Emma growled, scooting closer. "There was a key—a duplicate key, like the cellar one, only it wasn't, and then—then it was gone, and then there were blonde hair strands on my pillow—"

Regina raised a brow at that. "You might have noticed _you_ are blonde, Mrs. Gold."

"Goddamnit, it wasn't mine! Then…then the wall sconces in the bedroom started to flicker—"

"A common occurrence, I'm sure—"

"But it only happens when I'm in there by myself, and—and whenever I try and get someone else to witness it, it stops." And so Emma stopped, too. It sounded ridiculous in delineation even to her own ears, an account from someone who had too much time on their hands and too many nips at the cooking sherry, even though she knew it wasn't the case. She sank back into the chair; Killian was so much more easy to relate things to.

"And _why_ would a man like Rumpelsteiger be sneaking about, planting bric-a-brac in your quarters and fiddling about with estate facilities?"

Emma leaned forward, jaw jutting. "He knows. I mean…I don't know if he knows specifics, but…it's quite obvious he suspects something about me, and is playing some twisted little game with me. To what end, I don't—"

Regina interrupted, snorting loudly. "Wherever are you getting these fantastic notions?! This whole job may have stimulated your evidently _wild_ imagination—but that has no place here."

"But he's—"

Regina held up a hand to cut Emma off. "I'm not finished. Do you really believe some old Nazi dignitary would really stoop to amusing himself in such a way? Why, the idea—"

Emma could feel the heat rising up her neck. "I believe it's well established at this point that the man isn't playing with a full deck! Who on the outside can explain, without a doubt, why he does what he does?"

The other woman gave her a withering stare, but meeting Emma's fiery green gaze and stubbornly set mouth, sighed, leaned back in her chair, and reached for her notepad. "Alright, Mrs. Gold. I'll jot down your concerns, and share them with Agent Humbert." A quick, illegible scrawl followed in her pen's wake, and she tossed the pad back onto her desk.

"Getting back to the _real_ matters at hand…as you insisted on staying in this position, you can go and make yourself useful. We know what those fugitives are about now, but if you could determine where these materials are coming from, well, it would further prove our case. The Argentinian government will want a rock-solid reason for dragging a wealthy, contributing expat from within their borders. "Ex-Nazi" doesn't swing anything here."

Emma nodded, beginning to tune out Regina's demands; she didn't want her suspicions to be dismissed just like that. She tapped her finger in front of the notepad. "Shouldn't we, er, notify Kil—I mean, Agent Jones about all this?" In all honesty, she was also hoping that another meeting might patch things up from last time, when they hadn't parted on the best of terms. And maybe she could even muster the grit to tell him about the…surprise he'd left her with, and they could decide what to do—together.

A mean little smile curled the corners of Regina's mouth. "I'm afraid this intel wouldn't be relevant to Agent Jones anymore, Mrs. Gold. You see, the man's put in for a transfer."

Emma felt like all the blood was rushing from her head. "A transfer? A transfer to…off the case?"

"Aren't you savvy," Regina said dryly. "Yes, he's asked to be sent undercover to try and eradicate the remaining Spanish fascists loyal to the Nazi cause."

A painful twinge spidered through her lower belly. "Spanish fascists…he's—he's going to Spain?"

Now Regina gave her a look of pure annoyance. "Did you skip your coffee this morning, Mrs. Gold? _Yes_, Spanish fascists generally reside in _Spain_." She glanced pointedly down her nose at Emma. "Seems he was just _itching_ for a more rewarding assignment. I suppose all your tricks of the trade weren't spellbinding enough to bring a globetrotter like Killian Jones to heel."

Emma pushed off from the chair arms to bring herself to her feet, her ankles wobbling unsteadily in her pumps. "No…" she replied faintly, gaze clouded. "No, I don't suppose they were." And without any kind of farewell, Emma made her way out the door.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Gold," Regina called breezily. "Come back when you have something of note for us." Once the door had clicked into place behind Emma, Regina wadded up her hastily written note and lobbed it into the wastebasket.

* * *

_Everything's coming undone_, Emma thought bleakly as she sat in the darkness of her chambers after managing to get through supper, arms wrapped around herself. The involuntary shivering wasn't helping to settle her thoughts in the least. At least she had a few spare moments to gather them before the men's card game ended downstairs. She'd never felt weaker in her life, couldn't remember the last time she'd cried, even as an abandoned, friendless child—yet here she was, with a purpose in her life for once, and she was a hairsbreadth away from bawling like a sap over the most infuriating, hard-boiled man she'd ever known. Who happened to not give two hoots about her anymore. Oh, and she just happened to be toting his progeny about with nobody—for now—any the wiser. It was enough to give a lesser gal an anxiety complex. _But_—

"No time for that luxury," Emma said aloud, pushing herself off the bed. Yes, it hurt that he was leaving, leaving _her_, but people had left her whole life. She had another to think of now. And from the way Regina'd spoken that afternoon, she was satisfied that she was still a necessary component to the operation.

She made it to the top of the stairs without having any real destination in mind. Perhaps she could find a book in the library; going out alone at this time of night was out of the question, and if she made herself scarce from the boudoir before that ape tottered in drunk after gin rummy—

Emma gasped, and pressed her palm to her abdomen. The same stabbing pain that she'd felt that afternoon at Headquarters had returned, in a more intense fashion, and over a wider area. One more step onto the staircase, and her knees nearly buckled. Emma bit her lip, keeping her startled cry contained, and inched slowly—doubled over—back into the boudoir, and from there into the en-suite bathroom.

Another mind-numbing cramp gripped her, and with a feeling of dread she peeled off her silk panties, now soaked with perspiration, and gently felt about. She wasn't sure what she should be looking for, but she'd know—her fingertips touched wetness, and she drew them from under her skirt. She stared down blindly at the spot of blood on her palm, slowly sliding off the toilet to the pale, cold tiles. _Oh, God…no. Please, no_. Despite all the ugliness that had transpired in her life, in the recesses of her mind there had been a smidge of optimism for the ending of this whole odd situation…perhaps there could've been a light on the horizon for the first time in both hers and Killian's troubled lives? She felt the tears start to pool at the corners of her eyes, blurring the alarming sight in front of her. _You've been an idiot, fooling yourself_, her thoughts now chided. She and Killian weren't ordinary people who could just up and float out of this situation, and build a picture-perfect little nuclear family like most of the world. They never would be—he hated her, he thought she hated him, and was even traveling across the globe to be free of her. God, she was trapped here, alone except for her requested updates, the contacts which seemed to be coming more and more infrequently. Her mind started to whirl at an even more frenzied pace, doubts starting to creep in at the edges. Maybe she'd misread Regina today, and after all this, they _would_ abandon her, not giving a toss if the Nazis made some sport of the treacherous traitor in their midst.

There was no awareness of any shouting or voices, or of the pounding on the bathroom door, until the lock snapped right off the hinge and Bae burst in. He took in the sight with wide eyes: Emma on the floor, panties twisted around her ankles, hand smeared in blood.

"Emma! W-what's happened here?!" he stuttered stupidly, sinking to the floor next to her, turning her face to meet his.

She stared at him, then down at her palm, then back at him. He was the only one here, and she was literally red-handed. There was no hiding it. "I—I might not be p-pregnant anymore," she wavered, then snapped completely, the tears starting to come faster, sobs erupting from her throat. She grabbed his lapels as he leaned down, staring down at her as though in a daze.

"You…were with child?"

Her mind reeled, thinking rapidly even as she crumbled. "Y-yes. Was sup-supposed to be a surprise."

"Oh…dear…. Come, come, wife, let's get you to bed," he said, easing an arm under her knees, preparing to carry her. "I'll send for Whale, and—"

"No!" She clawed at his face until both hands were anchored in his hair. "_No_. I don't want him. Send for one of the doctors in the city." God, the thought of that man's hands on her, after everything she knew, was enough to induce vomiting. No doubt a terrible thing to add to her current state.

"But, my pet, you know what a hazard it could be to—"

"No! Get another doctor, or—or I'm jumping out the window!" she screamed, struggling to get down from his hold.

Bae clutched her to him. "Alright, alright, if that's what you want. Just be calm; Christ, you're hysterical! This isn't helping your condition, I'm sure."

"I don't care," she whispered, as she was laid on top of the comforter, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as he sprinted from the room. "I don't care about me anymore."

* * *

Several hours later, Emma lay deep in slumber. The ancient little local doctor had prodded her gently, giving her some draught that immediately spread a soothing relief along her taut muscles. But only after hearing his diagnosis would she allow herself to drift off. She'd struggled along with what meager Spanish she'd picked up in the past few months, until in a show of altruism, he switched to rudimentary English. What she managed to understand was enough to put Emma's mind at ease: she was still in an early stage of pregnancy, and this was common. Though, he had continued, it seemed like a heavier occurrence than most he'd seen, and said it could be due to stress. _Was_ there anything causing a strain on her psyche as of late? Under Baelthazar's hard stare from the corner of the room, Emma had looked away, and managed to squeak out a '_no_' before burrowing into the mound of pillows propping her up.

Baelthazar stormed downstairs, his steps echoing on the marble. He'd had his doubts, what with all his father had brought up before, but now…. The doctor had taken his arm outside Emma's door, and told him if his wife was to be kept from miscarrying, then whatever their _personal problems_ were at the moment ought to be put on ice, so to speak. And he had readily agreed with the physician, though his mouth had hardened to a thin line once the old man turned to leave. So his wife had proven herself to be physically weak…not ideal, but as long as she brought this child to term, and possibly another, he could leave her to tend to them while he found some mistresses to his liking, and return to the racetracks and gambling halls to amuse himself. The old goat would be appeased by grandchildren no matter who they came from, Bae was sure of it, and hopefully cease his irritating chatter of returning to Germany, at least for a few more years. A return to Germany meant his father putting him to work, _real_ work, which wasn't something he'd ever been fond of. But first, he had to stop his father's suspicions and this nonsense he'd begun, before it ruined everything. A miscarriage or a dead wife weren't part of the plan.

He burst dramatically into his father's study after confirming his whereabouts with Glass, thinking he'd be doing some paperwork or reading. On the contrary, Rumpelsteiger was surrounded with his top tier goons, deep in discussion, yet didn't look surprised to see his son fly into the room already half-cocked.

Bae waved his hands about, frenzied, then let them drift to dig into his hair. "This—this has gone too far. The stress—Elsa's mur—_passing_, Emma's…she could have lost our child! _My_ child." He strode over and pounded a fist on top of Rumpelsteiger's desk. "Cease these efforts immediately! You haven't proven anything, and—"

He cut off when Rumpelsteiger didn't show the least bit of ire towards his outburst, instead turning towards Whale and starting to laugh, steadily increasing in volume. With his pointed glance, Whale took the cue, and started chuckling as well, and even that half-cocked Jefferson started up his hyena wail, no doubt not having a single inkling on what it all was about.

Bae could feel his complexion further infuse with heat from his anger. "How can you be so callous?! I understand your reservations about Emma, but my child—"

Rumpelsteiger fluttered his fingertips mockingly, pitching his voice high. "_My child, my child_!" he shrilled out, laughing even louder. "Oh, my idiot son. For all your shortcomings, you _have_ always known how to bring about the mirth, no matter the situation and however unintentionally." He gave a last giggling sigh, pulling a handkerchief from his suit and swiping at his eyes. "Sit down, boy. And don't even think of continuing this blustering display. It's _my_ turn now."

Dutifully, Bae took a seat opposite his father, looking expectant. "_Well_? I have a frail wife to go and check on shortly. And I don't appreciate—"

Rumpelsteiger tossed a small object straight at Bae's face, which he palmed before it could hit. He looked down; it seemed to be a small vial, which was common enough with the manor being the nerve center for Viktor's constant experiments. There was still some kind of clear liquid in it.

Rumpelsteiger leaned forward before Bae could even begin the questioning. "I'll be brief, as there are more important matters to get to, so to the first matter at hand: let's discuss your child. Namely, that it's no child of yours."

Bae's fists clenched tightly, and he started to stand, only to be forced back into his seat by Jefferson's hands on his shoulders. "How dare you slander my wife, and to my face? This may be your residence, old man, but—"

His father only rested his chin on steepled fingers. "I've been drugging you with the concoction you hold in your hand since you first began toting that strumpet around town on your arm. And, it being one of Viktor's creations, I have the utmost faith in its properties. I see now that it was not unplaced."

"Cottonseed based," Viktor broke in, unable to contain his excitement. "Rudimentary, but quite effective. Remember, Herr Rumpelsteiger, I said he wouldn't be able to detect it, and I was correct!"

"Yes, yes, it worked brilliantly, Viktor," Rumpelsteiger replied, in a bored tone used for calming an excited child. "But remember, you have one final job to—"

"What in hell is going on here?!" Bae bellowed. "You just admitted to drugging me—I want goddamned explanations!"

"Ever since you began downing Viktor's potion in your morning tea," Rumpelsteiger said calmly, "you've been sterile."

Baelthazar's eyes went wide; his father wasn't prone to jokes, but it couldn't be true…. "Th-that's impossible! Why, I've been upon her at every spare—"

Rumpelsteiger very deliberately shut his eyes, gripping his cane handle tightly and willing himself to stay composed. "_Sterile_, you defective simpleton, not _impotent_!"

Jefferson leaned over from his position behind Bae's chair, and whispered loudly while giggling through every other word: "You thought your soldiers marched onwards, but the ranks were empty." When Bae twisted around angrily to try and snatch his father's goon by his paisley cravat, Rumpelsteiger waved his hands in a placating gesture. "Now, don't get incensed, boy. The effect is completely temporary after going a few days without." His eyes narrowed at Bae. "But you haven't gone without—I've made sure of it." He nodded at Jefferson to continue his stance. "Keep ahold of the man, Jefferson, until he realizes how foolish it would be to make a lunge at me." Rumpelsteiger gave Bae's knee a sharp pat of faux-sympathy. "I'm sure this is a terrible blow, knowing another man's been pleasuring your wife, planting his claim within her. Oh, yes…a terrible blow, I'd imagine. Hmm," Rumpelsteiger tilted his head back dramatically, placed his crossed legs onto a footstool. "If I were a betting man, I'd place my coin on Miss Blanchard's lover being that dashing fellow from the party. Who I don't doubt had something to do with the disappearance of my cellar key. Playing at spy games whilst welcoming a debonair agent between her thighs—your little wife has been living quite an adventure with you, her stooge of a husband, as her smoke screen."

Baeltahzar looked up, eyes glittering angrily. "How can I make this up to everyone, Papa? To—to you?"

"Mmhmm…that dark hair, icy eyes, with her cornfed American looks—won't that be a handsome child?"

"Father, please," Bae gritted out with difficulty. "I want to make amends for my foolishness, can't you see?"

Rumpelsteiger hacked out a harsh laugh. "Well now, that shall be a first for you, will it not?"

"_Father_—"

"As it so happens, I've already begun the necessary measures against your little traitor—other than the small little tricks that have no doubt led to her current state. You may thank me for that later. I knew this moment would come, when you'd see reason, and I've employed Viktor's assistance yet again. Here, ingest a sample."

Rumpelsteiger tossed another vial towards his son, who caught it and inspected it once in his palm. It had more of a discoloration than the first solution, but not by much. He unstopped it and took a whiff—odorless, as well.

"Did I say to sniff? Cheers, boy. Drink it."

"Are you mad? What is this? As though I'd—"

Rumpelsteiger unfurled his Luger from under his left arm, pointing it lazily in his son's direction. "Don't make me ask twice."

The younger man tipped it back, intending to take only the smallest of sips, but with a wave at him with the gun, he polished it off. It tasted like…absolutely nothing. He wasn't sure what the point of this demonstration was, and as usual, his father seemed determined to draw out the explanation.

"And that," Rumpelsteiger declared with a flourish, "is what will finally remove the problem of Miss Blanchard from our lives. It shall put certain motions in action, and then she'll complete them." He swept his arms wide. "No culpability on our part—from the ignorant outsider's perspective."

Bae spat, wiped his mouth dramatically on the back of his hand. "Trying to poison me, too, Father? Isn't my newfound compliance enough?"

"Dunce!" Rumpelsteiger barked. "If I wished you dead, I'd make no secret of it. That amount won't do a thing, will it now, Viktor?"

"Certainly not. But over time…."

Bae turned to him eagerly. "How much time?"

"In little less than a week, we have a very good chance of Mrs. Gold—"

"_Don't_ call her that anymore!" Bae interrupted loudly. "A _whore_ is no wife of mine."

"Don't be rude, boy," Rumpelsteiger said, hiding an eyeroll at his son's quick turnabout. Naturally, it went along with all he'd arranged, but the clod was so predictable, there was hardly any sport in it. "Explain for the ignorant, Viktor."

Whale grinned down maniacally at the beaker in his hands. "Another little concoction of mine—mescaline to enhance misgivings and paranoia, visions if we're lucky. A liberal dose of pyrilamine as well, to add in extreme fatigue. Both substances are odorless, tasteless, and therefore, the perfect tea blend for the lovely patient upstairs."

"They go swimmingly with Earl Grey," Jefferson tittered, with a quick double-clap of his hands.

Bae gave his father a hard stare, then directed it equally towards Viktor. "You're quite sure of this method? That it'll work? This dame isn't like most, I've found."

Rumpelsteiger leaned back, a contemplative look on his face. "No…no, you're actually accurate on that account. For once." He gave a disappointed sigh. "I _suppose_ if she insists on dragging matters out, a grand overdose of choral hydrate will do the trick." He harrumphed. "Far less amusing, though, and may bring the suspicions back around to us, if her organization even cares to try and defend that little piece of refuse."

Baelthazar lumbered to his feet, knuckles white on his clenched fists. "I don't give a damn how it happens, I just want it done. As I said, I'll do whatever's required." He turned and stormed out, the slammed door sending vibrations throughout the room.

"_Oh_," Rumpelsteiger breathed, leaning forward in his chair, grinning after his son. "_Now_ things are getting interesting."

* * *

_5 Days Later_

With an exaggeratedly annoyed huff, Killian rose from the park bench that had become his and Emma's customary meeting place, and began the short walk back to Headquarters. It wasn't like Swan to miss a meeting, even if she was cross with him. Had they ended up piling too much on her plate? Emma was a hardy lass, but everyone had their breaking point.

Truthfully, Killian had felt the need to break the news of his upcoming departure to her personally more than to give and receive new tidbits on their targets. He wanted assurance that this move was for the best, and had been hoping that her expression would give him the answer he needed to finally bring this…whatever this was…to a close. Yes, it was for the best. He was plainly making her miserable, and what was that tired old saying? Ah, yes… "If you _love_ something, set it free." He still hadn't been able to get the actual word past his lips during his discussion with Graham, didn't want to consider it, really, but thought it prudent to err on the side of caution. He'd be sure to finalize details for her post-mission comfort, and then vanish from her life. With any luck, she'd find some uncomplicated, dull fellow who'd treasure her for the exquisite creature that she was. An image of just who that could be began to form, unbidden and unwelcome, in his mind's eye. The bloke taking shape first had that generic, clean-cut look of a soap ad model, but slowly the features began to morph, rearranging and changing until the incredibly punchable mug of Baelthazar Rumpelsteiger leered at him from his raging thoughts.

With a low growl, Killian spun and sent his metallic fist right into the side of Headquarters' main building. An audible snap sounded, even above the usual sidewalk din, and he groaned inwardly when he saw the index finger bent towards the palm. Graham would give him a chewing out for certain—it was a pain to be fixed and it wasn't the first time it'd happened since Emma's marriage.

Graham's head popped out of the side door. "Killian! What _are_ you doing?" He waved his hand. "Well, never mind that now. That was a quick visit; was something amiss?"

"Aye," Killian said darkly, shoving his damaged prosthesis into his coat pocket and brushing past Graham. "Emma…wasn't there."

"No?" Graham followed him into the office. "She's typically quite punctual, isn't she?"

"Twasn't a matter of punctuality, Humbert," Killian said agitatedly, taking a seat and ignoring Regina behind the desk. "She _never_ came. I waited nearabouts two hours."

"Strange," Graham mused, tapping a rhythm on the desk. "Do you think—"

"She probably just didn't want to bother, after I filled her in on the updates around here," Regina broke in with a smug smile.

"And just what the devil do you mean by that?" Killian said, forcing himself to keep a steady tone—for the moment.

"Why, she stopped on by the other day," Regina said airily. "No doubt wanted to fill your ears with her nonsense, Agent Jones, but instead she got the one who doesn't acquiesce to her bald-faced codswallop."

He tried to hide his utter contempt. "Emma's not a storyteller. What'd she tell you, you miserable crone?!" He slammed the gnarled metal hand down on the desk, relishing it when the wood groaned, the top layer splintering against the sudden attack, and Regina gasped and shrank back. Well…restraint had never been one of his strong suits.

Graham stepped up, holding out a hand. "Killian, let's keep a cool head about things." He turned sharply towards Regina. "Agent Mills, you are under no authority to keep pertinent information to yourself, and I believe this has been made plain to you—"

"Several times," Killian interjected.

"—and you will relay what _Agent_ Blanchard confided to you. _Immediately_."

Angling her chair as far from Killian as possible, Regina stammered out: "She—she thinks the old man's playing some series of tricks on her. Wants her to believe she's imagining things, she suspected. Naturally, I told her that was _highly_ unlikely, but she wouldn't be swayed."

"_And_?" Killian bent forward until only the front two legs of his chair teetered against the floor. "Out with it."

Regina cleared her throat nervously and continued. "L-like I said, she wouldn't be swayed, demanded I share her information with Agent Jones. But once I updated her on the…the change in structure around these parts, she was suddenly very keen to leave." She sat back, folding her arms, and shot them both a baleful glare. "That's the bona fide truth!"

Killian felt a wave of heat go over him, thought he might even pass out from anger. "A 'change in structure', madam? I take that to mean you took it upon yourself to inform Emma of my leaving?"

She threw her hands in the air. "What's the difference who she heard it from? You want to be free of her, Jones—I did you a favor!"

"Oh, and I'm sure you relayed the news with the utmost finesse and neutrality, eh?" He lumbered unsteadily to his feet. "Why, I ought—"

"Regina, I think you should take the rest of the afternoon off," Graham cut in.

"Off? Why? And to where?"

"As far away from Killian Jones as you can get. Because I don't think I can hold him back any longer, and frankly, I'm beginning to question if I even should."

Regina's eyes rounded. "How _dare_—"

"_Dismissed_, Agent Mills. Au revoir.'

Once the harpy had left the building in a flurry of cursing and slinging her coat about, Killian collapsed into the chair, letting out a low sigh. "I was _going_ to tell her myself, Humbert. _Today_."

"I believe you, Killian. But why're you still running scared with the woman? And the theatrics—do you really have to fly halfway across the world when we're so close to clinching this thing?"

"I'm doing it for her own good. All I've done is muck up her life since we met. She's a good lass, Humbert. She deserves an easier time of it. Normalcy."

Graham let out a sigh of his own, reached over into the side cabinet to pull out a pair of glasses and a canter of whisky. "I don't doubt your intentions, Killian, but do you really think it'd appear that way to her? I'd chance a guess that if someone I was currently"—he stopped to give Killian the necessary, disapproving long look—"_intimate_ with decided to leave me high 'n dry, well. The term _abandonment_ comes to mind."

Killian clenched his teeth. "I'm only trying to give her the best shot she can get."

"All I'm saying," Graham intoned, splashing two fingers into a glass and setting it on the ruined desk, "is you picked a damned inconvenient time to facilitate 'normal' here. Who else has the lady's trust, hmm? The only other person she was chummy with is _dead_, and her lover then decides to fly the coop? Expected her and Regina to suddenly warm up to each other?" Graham took the seat opposite Killian, and had a swallow of his own drink. "You're a damned good agent, Jones. But you're thoroughly hopeless when it comes to women's emotions."

Killian stared down into the amber liquid. Humbert was right, he'd been a complete arse. He ought to've told her straightaway, but nevertheless—

"If your heart's still set on leaving, for Miss Blanchards' own good, or whatever contrived fib you're trying to believe in, then fine. But I insist on one thing, Killian. And it's a direct order." Graham's voice took on the authoritative air that usually wasn't heard when it was just the two of them. "You're going to clear this up with Miss Blanchard, give her your reasoning before running off. Immediately, I've decided. Don't think to disobey this; I'll follow up."

In truth, Killian was relieved that he had an out to see Emma one last time, even if it was under the guise of official business. He smirked across the desk at his superior. "Bloody dictator," he grumbled, before finishing his whisky in one graceless gulp.

* * *

_3 Days Earlier_

"Care for an apertif, pet? You look a bit pale." Bae gestured towards her glass with the decanter.

"No…," Emma rubbed her fingertips across her moist forehead. "No, I'm…I'm actually not feeling quite up to snuff lately, dear. My head aches terribly. Must be catching something." She looked up quickly, and the room and its inhabitants swam in her vision. Was it her imagination, or were the men leering at her? She coughed, tried to firm up her voice. "I'll…just have some tea, please. It might soothe me."

The older Rumpelsteiger looked over his shoulder. "Tea, Glass," he ordered, covertly pressing a small capsule into the butler's palm as he passed with the teapot.

* * *

**A/N: I know this segment was pretty light on Killian &amp; action, but hopefully conveyed Emma's growing feelings of isolation better. And both will be back tenfold for the remainder of this fic!**


	13. Chapter 13

_Next part is HERE, yay! I had a complete block, then in the past five days wrote about 4,000 words, and here it is! Another long wait (sorry), but all I can say is...at least it wasn't 6 months this time (and hopefully will never be again)! I even had to go back &amp; make sure my timelines were lining up, haha. Another long one too, to appease everyone whose waited :) And thanks to the follows/favorites that somehow found this in the meantime._

* * *

Of course, seeing to Emma was more easily said than done. Killian figured he could make quick work of it—even though she'd just visited the office, he could send her some kind of signal to meet with him again; that was the kind of thing he did. Her past comment about him sneaking in dressed as a milkman brought a fleeting grin to his face, before worry creased his brow again. For as much as he respected Graham as his superior, he knew his friend to be a sappy romantic, and the fact that he'd focused more on Killian and Emma having a proper goodbye than what she'd tried to explain to Regina, made his stomach roll sourly. Humbert may not think Emma's concerns were anything to get up in arms about—though in a much more polite way than Mills—but Killian felt…well, he knew after all that had transpired since the party didn't put him at the top of Emma's favorite persons' list. But he felt—nay, he _did_ know her, knew her hopes and fears, just as well as he knew the right angle to thrust into her welcoming body that would instantly make her come apart. He felt an ache in his cock, as well as a growing pressure in his chest, though he fought to tamp both reactions down. Yes, he missed the bloody woman, anyone in their right mind would—which meant all those fools in her past were addle-brained schmucks. Killian's eyes pressed tightly closed as a memory from that drunken night of Swan's proposal washed over him.

_It's not just the sex. I think…I think even if we'd met under other circumstances, in another place, another time…I'd choose you._

But she had every right to hate him now; the least he could do was look into what was niggling at her. Any concern of hers, was a concern of his. He couldn't leave in good conscience with this furrow of unease spreading within him. He had to make sure she was all right, and guarantee her safety henceforth. Then, he could continue the business of giving them both a fresh start.

Killian just wasn't sure, upon seeing her again, if he could ever bring himself to let her leave his arms.

* * *

_3 Days Earlier_

_There's something wrong here_, something within her insisted. _Not safe to stay_. Emma tutted at her own paranoia, because really, that's all it could be. The household as a whole had taken her pregnancy news and emergency without batting an eye. Unfortunately, all those eyes seemed to be fixed upon her ever since. Emma reminded herself that that had been a resigned expectation from the start. The news was out, and seemed a great focus for everyone now. She sighed inwardly. Better to have that be the focus than her other role found out. Her fingertips ran idly over her stomach. It would have been a great comfort to have another woman, to have Elsa here right now, assuring her it would be alright just as she had at her wedding farce—

_But she can't_, the small voice returned, a more sing-song quality to it now. _Because of _you_. After all, she'd be alive if it weren't for you. Because of you…you…you…_

Emma swallowed thickly. _No…no, it's not true_. _I couldn't've known—_

"Did you say something, pet?"

Her head snapped up; had she said that aloud? God, if she didn't start measuring out her every move, they'd figure out what she was about in no time. When had she gotten so careless? Emma began to exaggerate her hand movements.

"Sorry, dear…I was just murmuring nonsense to the baby. I suppose I'm becoming overly sentimental already," she finished with a sheepish laugh, rubbing her abdomen in a wide arc.

A flinty gleam reflected in his eye. "Well now. Isn't that _sweet_?"

She glanced up quickly at his chilly cadence. Baelthazar had never been the affectionate sort, but for a second there, she could've sworn it was Rumpelsteiger Senior she was seeing and hearing. Emma's position here in their network was already so tentative, she couldn't afford any capricious behavior on her vulgar husband's part. She was sure his affections were the only obstacle to his father not taking her out at any conceivable opportunity, though ever since her miscarriage scare, Rumpelsteiger had seemed evermore attentive towards her whereas his son's attentions appeared to wane. Emma wasn't liking the development of either, especially with the strange new sensations overwhelming her. At first she'd thought maybe the pregnancy was muddling her thoughts, but it seemed to be turning into a physical affliction as well, which was just as concerning. They didn't seem to be the commonplace ailments of pregnancy she'd heard of from other afflicted working girls she'd had a passing acquaintance with.

Emma stood abruptly, the unease still washing over her. "I'm afraid my stomach's still a bit unsettled, dearest," she directed at Bae. "I think I'll take my leave early this evening."

"Splendid idea, splendid," Rumpelsteiger boomed. "But," he pushed her saucer closer, the teacup faintly rattling in it. "Don't be wasteful."

Emma raised the cup back to her mouth; perhaps it would help her stomach to settle. As for her nerves…. Her gut gave a lurch before she could finish her sip, and she rose shakily to her feet. "I'm sorry, but—" The rest of her excuse died on her lips at seeing the looks of pure venom everyone around the table shot her, and her abandoned cup. "I've—I've got to rest."

Rumpelsteiger groaned loudly. "Very well."

Glass opened one of the heavy dining room double doors as she approached, and filed out behind her, but Emma paid him no heed. The swirls on the marbled tiles in front of her twisted into impossible designs right before her eyes; her vision blurred. Emma rubbed furiously at her temple again.

"All right there, madam?" Glass's dispassionate voice came from behind her.

"N-no. I think I—" Emma reached for the post at the bottom of the stairs—and then she was falling.

* * *

Weary eyes blinked open, the familiar cream-colored paint of hers and Baelthazar's bedchamber coming into focus. What had happened again? one minute, she'd been on the way out of the dining room, and then—she'd fallen? Emma felt delicately around her face, wincing when she came to a tender spot high on her right cheekbone. She looked towards the shadows, grateful when she didn't see Bae lurking there as he had after Elsa's demise. But there was still something…not right. It was dead quiet, and not even a maid had come to check on her it seemed. In addition, the pounding in her head seemed to have reached a fever pitch, and her stomach flopped uneasily when she rolled to her side.

Emma put a steadying hand against her torso, and laid the other one flat to help push herself off the bed. Her shaky legs felt as though several sandbags were tied to each, and after only a single step she fell half over, her right knee painfully absorbing the impact. She bit her bottom lip savagely, wanting to hold in any show of weakness at all costs whether those loons were listening or not, and tried not to let panic seep in. There was no doubt in her mind now that they had slipped her a mickey, probably more than one—though in her current situation she didn't think pausing to be relieved that she hadn't been going daffy of her own volition was a sensible use of time. Fingers splayed out against the carpet, Emma moved forward on her knees towards the door, trying to put less pressure on the right. Yes, it might be futile—hell, she wouldn't be surprised, everything considered now, if there was some guillotine contraption jerry-rigged to swing down as soon as the door swung open. But it was a better plan than sitting on her hands and doing nothing at all. She almost sobbed with relief as she finally made it, her forehead pressed to the wood, and she reached up to open it.

The knob rattled loosely for a brief moment…then came away in her hand.

* * *

It was unlikely Emma would drop by the office of her own accord anytime soon. Besides regular visits being only weekly as a norm, Killian didn't think her last experience would make her eager to return. Perhaps she even thought he'd left already. He curled his hand into a fist, rage licking hotly up his spine, but he physically shook his head to dissipate the sensation. That wouldn't do him any good now—bringing comeuppance to the she-devil would have to wait for another day. Reassuring Emma was key at present, not to mention reassuring himself of her safety.

Emma seemed to have the freedom to go out on the regular ever since she'd moved in to the mansion, but Killian didn't want to waste anymore time. His instinct was telling him, in fact, that he didn't have time to waste, and he had long learned in both the military and MI6 that instinct wasn't something to ignore, no matter how greatly others wanted cold, hard facts before action was taken. He stopped across the road from the Rumpelsteiger mansion, scanning for the newspaper boy on his bicycle. The lad came this way every day promptly at the crack of dawn, and today was no exception. After Killian greased the lad's palm with an extra peso more than he'd first offered, the budding little extortionist went on his usual way—with Killian's order to keep the butler occupied long enough for Killian to scale the wall and then climb up to the balcony he knew was hers. Doubtful that that husband of hers was around, probably passed out drunk or at some casino in the city. Killian arguably knew his habits even more scrupulously than he'd learnt Emma's, relishing when he was out. If he was out, he wasn't near Swan.

As soon as he heard the front door being answered and the boy start wailing for a treat, Killian crept forward from the shadows, and began shimmying up the vine-covered parapet and into the expansive gardens.

Or rather, tried to. Killian gripped the top of the stone wall, made to hoist himself over it—

And then he was slipping, and a hot friction scraped along the palm of his leather glove, painful enough that Killian dislodged his grip completely and tumbled ungracefully into the dirt, landing in a squat.

"What the—," he turned his hand over, and saw almost the entire bottom of the glove looking like it had been burned away. He turned over his prosthetic hand, which he hadn't removed as quickly. That glove now only consisted of the top, the palm-side completely gone, and there were odd brown-gold colored singes on the metal ball of the hand and fingertips. Frowning, he stuck the more intact glove onto a stick and grazed it over where he'd just been, pulling it down.

It was working fast, but Killian could still make out a viscous green substance melting a path through the remaining leather. It must've been slathered atop the ledge and disguised by the ivy.

"Bloody hell." His mouth tightened into a bitter grimace when he thought what would've happened if he'd tried to climb bare-handed.

He made his way unobtrusively back to the main sidewalk, then started walking at a clip towards headquarters, while turning and glaring back at the mansion. He wanted nothing more than to break down that front gate and door himself, and shoot a path to Emma's door. He had a hunch—and Killian Jones didn't take a hunch lightly—that whatever that substance was had been placed there more to keep Swan inside rather than intruders out. As the thought replayed itself through his head, Killian broke into a full run. He needed manpower, and weapons, and Emma pried from that grisly household, preferably by him personally, for good. And he didn't have another second to lose.

* * *

No one had responded to her pounding and yelling for the twenty minutes after she'd pulled the doorknob off, and at least one of the servants would've heard her. Had they…could they have found everything out? Her suspicions of using Elsa to frighten her after the key fiasco returned. She didn't want to believe it, but she couldn't come up with any other cause for this conduct. Emma raised her fist to thump the door again, arm moving sluggishly, like she was trying to swim through pea soup. A tingling, as though her limbs had fallen asleep in an uncomfortable position, buzzed throughout her body. Her fist paused mid-air as she tried not to panic . Perhaps it would be best not to draw their attention. Maybe she ought to try and find an actual escape route. She was several floors up from street level, but it seemed a far better chance than—

The door swung open suddenly, nearly hitting her in the face. Glass stood there, his face a mask of disinterest.

"Your presence is requested downstairs."

Emma put on her sternest face. "What the hell's going on?"

He reached out a hand. "You will come with me, miss, whether you follow or I carry you."

Even in her state, Emma refused his grudging support. She clutched her way down the bannister slowly, trailing Glass into the dining room. Both Rumplesteiger Senior and Junior were there, as well as their motley band of associates.

Emma white-knuckled the twisting edges of the chair frame in front of her. She could feel her legs shaking solely from the strain of standing. "W-what's happening? What've you _done_ to me?!"

When she glanced up, Rumpelsteiger's eyes were only bottomless black, like those of a Great White she'd once seen in a discarded _New York Times_ article on 'The Unexplored Depths'.

"Done to _you_, arrogant child? You've got no one to blame for your current condition but yourself." He stopped to chuckle at her furious expression, and held out the same blue-flowered china she'd drunk from the day before. "Now don't be ill-bred, no matter how much you truly are—finish your tea."

"As though I'd trust another morsel you gave me!" With a swipe of her hand, Emma sent the cup flying from the saucer and shattering onto the marble.

"A bit late on that revelation," Rumpelsteiger said, cackling.

That _ill-bred_ comment was nagging through the fog at her mind's edge. "What did you mean by—" Emma took a large enough step away from the chair—and promptly collapsed to her knees.

"Oh dear, it seems Ms. Blanchard's condition is making her _highly_ enfeebled. Glass, would you assist in getting her back up to the guest room?"

Blanchard? Guest room? It seemed the period for pretenses had gone up in smoke, what little there was. Might as well go for broke, especially if she'd been left to her own devices.

"Get away from me!" Emma struck the butler in the chest with her fist as he advanced on her, but she might as well have whacked him with a feather duster. Even she could feel the lack of strength. She turned back towards Rumpelsteiger. "The only thing making me enfeebled is _you_!"

Rumpelsteiger strode up to where Emma was now draped over Glass's arms, his eyes gleaming darkly. "Oh? And what makes you think that?" He turned back to the rest gathered around the table. "This might be the first smidge of truth to come out of her mouth since she bamboozled her way into our midst."

Emma pressed her lips together firmly, hoping whatever they'd given her to weaken her body hadn't made her mind go soft in kind. She tried to kick her way out of Glass's grip, but the fight was quickly draining out of her. Frightening, to feel one's body start to betray you. The beast before her noticed it, too. "I'd save my strength, dearie. You'll most likely need it simply for remaining conscious."

Still thrashing weakly, Glass unceremoniously let her collapse back to the floor. Rumpelsteiger glanced up at his butler. "That's fine, Glass. She's not going anywhere." He began to stroll slowly around her kneeled form, but even trying to follow that movement made her head spin, so she fixedly stared at a point on the wall ahead of her.

"I can't even imagine what a bawdy little piece of fluff like yourself was thinking, putting yourself in this situation. But really, there's only one explanation—you had no choice."

Emma's head snapped up.

"Oh, yes," Rumpelsteiger continued. "Certainly, you could be some bored, rich society girl from the Hamptons. But even they have standards—"

"_Papa_!" Bae yelled, face flushing.

"—and I asked myself," Rumpelsteiger continued, ignoring the outburst. "What kind of woman sells themselves to a stranger? That does seem going beyond getting your jollies. Unless…you've already done it. Become used to it…." Rumpelsteiger came closer, bent down to Emma's ear. "Well, if you're being offered some compensation to be naught but your nothing, slattern self, what's the harm? Am I right, Ms. Blanchard? Was that your thought process?"

Emma focused on slowing her breathing, fighting the tightness in her chest. Even as nothing but malevolence surrounded her, there was still that little glimmer of hope flickering dangerously like a pilot light in a blizzard's wind. Maybe Killian didn't love her, but he _cared_ about her. Of that she was certain. And even if he hadn't, his innate decency wouldn't accept her seemingly dropping off the face of the earth without explanation before he left. He had both the desire to do right, and demand answers. If this was the end for her, it wouldn't be from a lack of effort on his part.

"I'm _not_ nothing," Emma hissed, looking to where her fingertips curled into the marble.

"What was that, dearie?"

She struggled to rise to her feet, but the dizziness overwhelmed her, and it was impossible. So she settled for sitting back on her haunches, feeling the burn of humiliation rise up her neck. What an animal, deriving pleasure at reducing a fellow human to this state. Emma could see, as stated in the reports she'd been allowed to peruse, how the barracks Rumpelsteiger had been in charge of had the highest suicide rate in the camp.

_No…don't let your thoughts go there. Focus on getting beyond the situation, or you're done for without giving Killian the chance to get to you._

"I _said_," she nearly shouted, "I'm not nothing! I was _never_ nothing!"

"And whoever gave you that idea? The man who planted that illegitimate whelp in you?"

Her eyes blazed angrily as she finally met Rumpelsteiger's gaze. "_Yes_. He did, and he's coming for me."

Rumpelsteiger made a show of turning a full 360 degrees, arms outstretched. "I don't see him bursting out of the shadows. Face facts, dearie—he's most likely already moved on to the next willing lightskirt's titillating embrace. Lord knows, your type comes cheaply."

Emma gave him a scornful smile, which was more of a grim bearing of teeth. "Whatever sets your minds at ease."

Rumpelsteiger's eyes narrowed briefly, before the unsettling smile returned. "Ordinarily I'd say someday your tongue would get you in trouble, but it's really a moot point at this stage. Well, while we wait huddled in fear—" he tittered again "—I suppose you ought to be kept under watch." He nodded at Glass, and snapped his fingers at Emma. "Haul her up to the guest room at once."

Emma knew at this point there was no use in struggling; it would accomplish nothing. She only braced her arms in front of her stomach, guarding against the impact of being tossed like a cluster of bananas over Glass's shoulder. The Rumpelsteigers, Whale, and Jefferson followed in their wake, but only father and son followed them into the bedroom. Glass shook her off his shoulder onto the bed, and looked expectantly to Rumeplsteiger, while Emma crawled as far from the three of them as the midsized bed allowed.

"Disconnect the room's telephone, Glass—no, actually, cut the cord. Completely. Little strumpet might figure a way around that handicap otherwise." Rumpelsteiger tossed a key in the air repeatedly, grinning maniacally around at the others. "I'll lock up once you've seen to that."

_Lock up_? Cold fear slid down her back like the dirty slush other orphans had shoved down her jumper in winter, back in the day. What did they mean to do? Starve her, torture her? She didn't want to dwell on what could occur in the sick imaginations of those in front of her, or their waiting associates.

"No…no!" Emma used what strength she had to push herself onto her elbows. Perhaps she could appeal to the possibility of consequences. "What if…someone should call for me? How would you explain yourselves?"

A high-pitched peal of laughter burst from Baelthazar's mouth, going on for so long that he leaned his shaking shoulders against the doorjamb to collect himself. Rumpelsteiger only gave her a cool once-over, a flicker of a smile wavering at the corner of his mouth.

"A call? For you? Now, dearie—" he turned, pushing Bae out of the room ahead of him, calling the last part over his shoulder. "Let's not keep lying to ourselves. Who on earth gives a damn about _you_?"

* * *

Killian gripped the armrests forcefully, heart thudding tangibly against his ribcage. Ever since he'd entered the service and made a valiant effort at tucking his past into a shoebox and setting it on the proverbial shelf, his cultivated flippant, laidback persona had served him well. Besides proving useful at not showing concern to his superiors or enemies, it'd formed a protective shell around his own pulverized heart. He used to wondered how a thing so damaged could continue to provide him life, bleak though it was. And soon he'd realized, it barely was—he'd been coasting nearly a decade on autopilot.

Until now. Until Emma.

His breath quickened as Graham and Regina made their way into the room, Graham looking a bit worried himself, while Regina looked as though she'd rather be anywhere else. He didn't wait for either of them to start.

"Something's screwy. That property's like a military fortress now; if those wretches aren't completely clued in to the whole operation, they at least know somehow that Emma's involved. She's in danger, and we've got to drop the whole façade and extract her." When Graham opened his mouth, Killian cut him off. "_Immediately_."

Regina raised both her face and palms to the ceiling in a great show of exasperation. "And let this all go kaput over one silly woman? I believe we've had this discussion, Jones. The chit knew the stakes, and went back—"

Killian leapt up so suddenly, Regina fell back into her seat with a shriek. His hand poised like a grip just short of her neck. "I've had just enough of your disparaging remarks, Mills. Open your trap once more, just _once_ more, whilst I'm here and I'll wrap this—"—he held up the mechanical hand—"—about your worthless throat."

"Killian!" Graham grabbed him by the shoulders, squeezing, and forced him to stagger back. "You forget both your rank _and_ your place!" Disappointment clouded his face. "And what happened with your honor towards ladies?"

An ugly sneer curled the right side of his mouth. "A lady? Here? Not in my line of vision."

"Useless cripple!" Regina shot back. Killian only rolled his eyes; how _very_ original.

He worked on making his tone cool, though every instinct told him to get a move on. "Swan's in trouble, as I said. Not to say they've discovered her exact purpose, but she's being kept under lock and key. Hasn't left the residence in who knows how long—could be nearly a week, just going by when we were supposed to meet last." Again he cursed himself for trying to be bloody noble and avoiding Emma—who knew what they'd done to her in that time? He spoke slowly, trying to beat down his turmoil threatening to reveal itself. An emotional tone was like chum in the water for that shark, Mills. She'd be even more hellbent on denying a request because of it. _Pull back, be professional_. "I'd—I'd like to formally call in the right to request backup for extraction."

Regina lit a cig, took an inhale so deep her cheeks hollowed. "If they've discovered her purpose, perhaps it's better to abscond with what we've already obtained, and leave the rest under the "Missions Terminated" files."

Killian glared at her. "Explain yourself, harpy."

"Why, settle this like any other endeavor that's been found out—raze it." Her dark eyes glittered with malice as she returned Killian's glare. "Burn that entire abode to the ground, with anybody who knows anything in it. We've already got the cell samples back in D.C.—"

Graham leapt between them, anticipating Killian's reaction. "Nobody's obliterating that place, Mills. Well…not yet, at least. And, Killian," he turned to him. "You know we'd never get the go-ahead for a breach—Miss Blanchard knowingly accepted the risks, and—"

"As the voice of the CIA present, the answer is _no_," Mills broke in.

Killian pretended like she hadn't spoken. "Humbert, I know that—"

"Even if I put in a request to MI6, it has to go through the proper channels, Killian. You know this." Graham strode behind the desk, started rifling through the top drawer. "I—I can telegraph over your concerns and request, just—" , he sent a sheaf of papers to the floor, "—once I find the form—"

"It's not a request, damn you! It's an _order_!"

"I…" Graham's eyes widened; he glanced sideways at Regina, who gave him a near imperceptible nod. Graham turned back, tugging nervously at the bottom of his tweed sportscoat. "I won't tolerate this impudence any longer, Agent Jones. _I _am the one heading the goings-on here, and if you have a problem with that, well…" He trailed off uncertainly.

Killian stood up, back ramrod straight. His temper didn't seem to be holding any sway here, and arguing with what constituted a brick wall was only more time wasted. "I think you forget _yourself_, Agent. Forgot how to bring about justice unless it's got some superior's bloody signature on it. Well," Killian continued, moving to the door, "I've got my own sources. There's something the British Navy instilled in those of us in its ranks—honor and loyalty. And we always come to one another's aid." He opened the door to leave.

"Damn it, Jones!" Graham clenched his fists, yelling after him. "I can't protect you if you go rogue on us!"

He got the bird in return, without even a glance back from its deliverer.

"Make the report," Regina hissed from behind him.

Graham turned, thoughts swirling amuck about his head. "Eh, what now?"

"He's gone off the reservation—you've got a duty to inform MI6. And once that's done with, I'll inform my people."

Graham ran a hand through his pomaded curls, sending them into interesting configurations. "Regina—there's no use being hasty about this. I denied him backup, what more do you want? There's no way one man could—"

"He _will_. He'll find a way—haven't you seen how he makes eyes at that whore? Like she's the reincarnated Mata Hari."

"What concern of yours is…." Humbert took a step back, and gazed down at her appraisingly. "I say, you really are the most awful sort, aren't you?"

"Spineless!" Regina barked, shoving roughly into his shoulder as she stalked from the room.

* * *

Time had blurred together; Emma couldn't tell if she'd been locked up in her room for hours or days. In sleep, there was welcome relief from those troubling voices that had been laying blame and guilt upon her before they'd locked her up.

Sporadically, she'd fight the grogginess to find a cup of tea and some gruelish oatmeal left on a tray just inside the door. She wasn't a fool; of course the small bit of sustenance they were leaving her had been doctored with whatever landed her here in the first place, but…at least it staved off starvation. Though she worried for what the mystery solution could be doing to the baby, _not_ eating a thing guaranteed a complication that she wouldn't risk.

_Damned if I do, damned if I don't_…she grimaced, and raised the cup reluctantly to her lips.

"Shouldn't of done this, pet," came suddenly from behind her.

Emma sputtered, spilling the hot liquid into her lap. She cursed loudly and turned, blindly sending the china flying. It smashed against the doorjamb, right next to Baelthazar's head. He looked coolly down at the mess.

"No better of an aim than last time, hmm?" He chuckled nonsensically to himself. "Unfortunately, don't think you'll be around long enough to practice."

Emma stared at him steadily, like one would a wild animal, trying to erase any fear from her eyes. She wondered why the strong smell of spilt brandy hadn't tipped her off to his presence, because it was certainly assailing her nostrils now. Delayed senses from the drugs?

"Around? Or alive? No point in mincing words with me anymore, Baelthazar, now is there?"

He let out another chuckle at that. "Now, _pet_. That all depends on you. Wouldn't it be better to make things easier on yourself? No telling what my father's got in store for you." He strode closer. Though neither this room nor its bed were as grand as the main bedchamber, she worked to maneuver around, keeping the bed as a barrier between her and Rumpel Junior. The nonchalant tone was sending chills down her back; he sounded more jovial and articulate than he'd ever been their whole acquaintance. He sounded more like his father, in fact. Unsettling, since he was plainly drunk as a skunk, and even seemed to be wearing the drink down the front of his shirt.

"I'd wager you have an idea or two. What's the harm in telling me now?"

He looked around the room like the conversation was boring him, then his eyes snapped back to her face. "I'd have given you everything," he said, ignoring her question. "You _had_ everything. Even if you'd started out as a filthy little traitor, didn't you ever reconsider once you saw the conditions in which you could live out the rest of your miserable little life?" When she remained silent, he continued to goad: "My father's inclined to think you're some streetwalker plucked from obscurity to infiltrate our household. Apparently the Allied governments like those that won't cause a stir if they disappear. That's all you are to them, you know—a disposable piece of trash. You could've had family, wealth, connections—"

That did it. "Family? Wealth? _Connections_? The whole free world is hunting you all down. Your father may have sniffed me out, but your days are numbered as well. And even if they weren't, I don't want your blood money. It was horrid enough to feel those hands of yours, the ones that committed such despicable acts, on my skin." Perhaps it was the effects of the elixir making her reckless, or a need to get everything off her chest before she met an end at the Rumpelsteigers' hands. At any rate, Emma continued, taking in a fresh gulp of air for courage. "You…you disgust me."

A flash of anger sprang to his eyes, quickly and then it was gone again, a menacing sneer replacing his calm expression. "Come now, Emma, it couldn't have been that _disgusting_." He reached out and tipped her face to his with a finger under her chin. "Admit it, hmm? Wasn't I your favorite _customer_? To be sure, there were things you did I haven't experienced in even the most accomplished brothels of Amsterdam—"

Certain he was trying to make her lose control first so he'd have an excuse for violence, Emma fisted her hands in her nightdress—the only clothing she'd been left. "All I'll admit to, Herr Rumpelsteiger, is that I'm a professional. The techniques I employed with you were no different than anything I'd done thousands of times before." Emma exaggerated, but had to say, she was getting a bit of a thrill chipping away at his composure. His left eye began twitching.

She backed up a little more. "Yes, thousands. Well, except for one." Emma laid a protective hand over her belly. "Love, real love, apparently makes you careless."

He pointed a shaking finger at her. "That should—dammit, slut! That should have been mine!"

Emma held her head high. "Oh, I took pains to ensure no child of mine would ever be yours. And regardless of what happens to me, and consequently my child, they will be all the better for never having been raised by you."

He stared at her in silence for so long, Emma began to wonder if he'd had a stroke. Wouldn't that be decent luck? But once she took a single step towards the door, he came to and stepped to block her path.

"It's unfortunate, really," he began, hands going to his waist, fiddling with his belt buckle. Emma followed the movement, watching warily, skin prickling. Did he mean to rape her? He continued: "Yes, unfortunate that all your keen little witticisms and cleverness and beauty was wasted on, well, a waste of life." He shook his head. "I suppose even after all your betrayals, I'm still far too tenderhearted when it comes to you. But then, that might just be the memories of you being such a magnificent fuck." Baelthazar shook his head. "That ends now. And to think, I was coming up here to show you an easy way out." He nodded towards the window. "It's open. Three stories isn't quite so far up to guarantee expiration, but diving head-first—" He stopped, then shrugged, pulling his belt free. "I suppose it doesn't matter now, though, does it? Because," he began wrapping the length of leather around his fist, buckle out, "I'm going to handle your death personally."

Emma gave a swift glance around the room, but the fiends had thought of everything; anything easily portable—and thus wieldable— had been removed. There wasn't so much as a tealight votive to defend herself.

"Shouldn't of let you under my skin; you're a mere female, after all. But I daresay this'll be satisfying to some degree, no matter the damage you've caused my family. Now, don't try and dart about the room, you'll only prolong things for yourself."

He advanced on her. "I'm sure your top dogs told you all about me. I liked—_like_— handling matters the physical way. In fact, I think I've missed it. So thank you for the opportunity to get back in the swing of things." He laughed to himself. "'Swing' of things—do you get it, Emma? Oh well, you will—" He abruptly swung out his belted fist at her left temple; Emma ducked, and still being unsteady, landed on her ass. But his state of inebriation seemed to equal her lagging reflexes. At any rate, he'd missed, his fist connecting solidly with the bedpost.

"Bitch!" he howled, shaking out his hand and stomping towards her. "You're going to regret that, too."

Emma retreated in a crab crawl, til one wall was at her back. As he raised his hand again, she shot out with her heel—a bullseye right into his paunchy gut. He dropped like a stone, clutching his middle, unable to make anything but a gasping sound.

"What in hell's going on in here?!" Emma glanced up; Bae turned. Rumpelsteiger Senior stood in the doorway. "Have you completely just thrown any smarts you ever had to the wind, boy?" He entered the room, and in three long strides reached Baelthazar, punching him directly where Emma had just moments ago. The man's eyes watered.

"You receive specific orders to keep to yourself, and now I find you here, in clear defiance of me? Do you know what I do to those who defy me, boy? Yes, you do!" He reached down to where Bae had dropped to his knees, and yanked his head back by a hunk of hair. "Answer me, you raging nincompoop!"

"Papa, please…she was taunting me. I refuse to suffer her disrespect to me any longer."

"And yet you were still brought to your knees by an incapacitated woman. Will your embarrassment to the Rumpelsteiger name ever cease? I won't suffer your weak excuses. Remove yourself from my presence immediately." When Bae hesistated, Rumpelsteiger hovered on him. "You don't want to test me further, boy."

His son hobbled, doubled over, out of the room, arms wrapped around what had to be a very painful midsection.

Rumpelsteiger turned, looking down on her with an almost fascinated manner, like she was a curious insect he hadn't yet determined a new genus for. He sighed. "It is quite a pity you weren't on our side, Miss Blanchard. To think of how your grit and smarts could have benefitted the goal, even more capable than my own offspring…" His face grew hard again. "Well now, no use crying over spilt milk, is there?" He turned to cross to the door, turning back just before he exited. "My son was right about one thing, though."

"Which is?" Emma managed, mainly to make him leave her be.

"The window behind you, dearie. It's completely at your disposal, if you wish to make use of it. You see, I haven't quite found an imaginative enough end for you yet, but third party bruising and injury aren't part of the plan. So until you decide to do the sensible thing for all involved," he swept out of the room with one of his elaborate hand gestures, "this shall be your—the _both_ of yours—prison." With a giggle, he slammed the door.

Emma slunk back into the bed, willing herself to sleep before the frightening voices had a chance to return. She had a sinking suspicion this new fodder would steer their rants towards considering Rumpelsteiger's sinister suggestions….

* * *

Killian nearly busted the lock straight off his door, with the haste he was in to start his rescue. At least now, he'd be in control—just the way he liked things. Couldn't count on anyone these days, even the bloke you'd been in the service with since training. But, bygones. Emma was priority Number One.

Bloody gods, those cretins had something diabolical planned for her, all right, and he didn't want to contemplate how much—or rather, how little—time he had to do something about it. The CIA would absolutely not give a damn about a civilian who'd entered into this of their own free will, just like Mills had been crowing all along. But just because he knew this didn't mean he'd accept it.

It was a good thing Killian Jones never went into battle without a backup plan.

Perhaps it was selfish of him, Killian thought dimly, as he lay on the carpet under his mattress, picking at a small area of well-stitched threads with a penknife, dragging those in the midst of their own assignments away to his aid. But desperate times, and all that rot. It was true what he'd spouted at Graham: Navy fellows, whether past or present, took care of their own. And when it came to Emma, he couldn't be bothered with caring how selfish he was.

He extracted the small black book from within the mattress' bowels, and flipped to the contact details needed. It'd been over a year since his last contact with Locksley and Scarlet, but if luck was on his side, and they were both still on their joint reconnaissance endeavor in Rio de Janeiro finding escapees similar to the Rumpelsteigers…Killian just might become a churchgoing man. It'd be over a day's journey, if they left straightaway….

Without noticing, Killian was already back out on the street and halfway to the telegraph office, composing in his mind as he went. He'd bribe the clerk to make himself scarce while he sent out his own missive. A foreigner sending out an urgent message in Morse was bound to stir up talk.

Once he'd done just that, Killian settled over the machine, fearing his coding had grown rusty. But it seemed no further in the back of his mind than getting back on a bicycle after years away, and he finished his missive at a breakneck pace. He gave it an approving nod before sending it off.

_To fellow men at arms_ STOP _Presence demanded in BA Arg_ STOP _Utmost speed and discretion necessary_ STOP—

Here Killian stopped as well, trying to fit all the urgency for Emma threatening to throttle him into such a short dispatch. Not that they'd think to question it, but….

_Matter of life or death_.

STOP

* * *

**A/N: Well, I hope it was worth the wait! I know our babies aren't reunited yet...but soon! Patience!**


	14. Chapter 14

**_Well, I've nitpicked (and fought writer's block) over this chapter far longer than I'd planned. So...here it is!_**

* * *

_2 Days Later_

"It's about bloody time," Killian's voice thundered at the two men who straggled up to him travel-worn and half-dazed.

"Oy, don't be givin' us that dross," Will Scarlet snapped back. He thumped his fist on his own chest. "'Ere yer message comes, askin' _us_ a favor, and ye've got the gall to spout off a greetin' like that? An' all low an' growly to boot? Think ya scare me, Jones? Sod off."

"Can it, the both of you." Robin Locksley stepped between Killian and Will, a palm planted on either of their shoulders. "Didn't sound from your dispatch that we had extra time for bickering, Killian."

Killian ran a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Apologies, mate. Suppose I'm a bit…tense."

"Aye, ya think?" Will snorted, obviously still miffed.

"I gather time is of the essence here, Killian, but perhaps you could elaborate more on this _life and death_ situation we're walking into? Don't misunderstand me, I'm positive you weren't exaggerating, but is there a reason you needed two ex-Navy fellows from across the continent?"

"The two _best_ Navy maritime snipers there ever was," Will added. "Better be of utmost importance, ole chum, to drag me from the beauties in Rio. Never saw such bountiful bosoms the likes of—"

Robin elbowed his partner in the side to silence him. "I've heard enough about your international carnal exploits to last me a lifetime, laddie, and I really wish I hadn't." He turned back. "Killian?"

In short order, Killian went over Emma's recruitment and training under his wing. How it was his fault for the mess she was in, and he owed her a new beginning. And that he strongly suspected the Rumpelsteigers now had her on borrowed time. He sat back, impatiently tapping his foot, trying to read what was running through his friends' heads.

"But, Killian," Robin began reluctantly. "That's all very well, but you know the Service has its lost causes. True, she was too green for something like this, but it's par for the course, I'm afraid."

Will jumped up, fists clenched, face flushed. "You told us to haul arse across two countries to pull out a dame that's as good as dead—"

Killian shot out of his seat, hauled Will up by the collar to meet him face-to-face. "You shut your fucking mouth, _mate_." Angry spittle flecked across Will's face. "Get prepped, we're on a mission schedule now." He let go of his former teammate with an extra jostle.

Will straightened his collar with a dark look at Killian. "Oy, what was that for?! Don't be getting' rough with me, wanker."

"Hmm…" Robin came around, getting between them again, but faced Killian. "You're acting quite off, man." He leaned in a moment, before a giant grin overtook his face. "Oh, _I_ know what you're on about," he said, sounding relieved. He clapped Killian on the back. "Don't needle him too much, Scarlet—the idiot's finally fallen, and how!"

"Fallen in what? Pig shit, to be growlin' about like a sailor wi' the scurvy?"

Robin looked down at him with a faux-pompous air. "Don't be so myopic, Scarlet. _Love_, good sir. Love."

Now they both turned towards him, and Killian forced himself to remain casual, hands in pockets, though his return stare was decidedly charged.

"_Nahhh_," Will scoffed, shuffling up toe-to-toe and squinting up as though Killian were some specimen under a microscope. "Ya think so?"

Killian shouldered past him almost roughly enough to send Scarlet to the ground. "Don't be halfwits, and don't be prattling on as though I'm not bloody present."

"Touchy, are we?" Scarlet replied, much more jovial now. "Yer right, Locksley. I see it now."

"I'm concerned, is all—"

"Precisely, for the first time in…well, _ever_," Robin replied.

"Listen here, the both of you—"

"Settle yourself, Jones. We'll help you get your woman back."

"She's not—"

"If only to see the kind of broad that's made ya go all moony," Will said cheerfully.

Killian snatched him by the sleeve. "Call her a broad again, and I'll break your arm."

Will shook him off. "Yer right, Locksley—_love's_ turnin' him into more of a grousin' moaner than usual."

"This discussion's shelved," Killian growled, fisting his hand in his already disheveled mop. "Haven't got time to argue the point further. Now,"—he whipped out a sheaf of the key players in the mansion, as well as a rudimentary map—, "the briefing will have to be, well…brief."

* * *

Her face was turned towards the long double windows, as it had been for the past hour. Rumpelsteiger's words had played on repeat through her brain for the past couple days, her thoughts at war with each other. Emma had refused the past several servings of gruel and tea, hoping that even if she were weak from lack of sustenance, maybe enough of the mystery elixir would be flushed from her system to regain sufficient equilibrium. If could only make it to the front door…. Surely, Glass would be on patrol, but perhaps she could evade him if she were relatively stealthy. Emma didn't want to risk further damage to her new passenger, but they both were doomed if she passively waited for the help that was most likely not coming at this point.

"Bastards," she growled low in her throat, thinking more on the forces she'd joined with than the ones that were currently trying to actively kill her. Then again, she ought not to be surprised at fickle human nature by this point in her life.

She rolled to her side, braced an elbow to push herself up…and couldn't: she only managed to sit up about halfway, before her arms shook uncontrollably and deposited her flat on her back again. Her brow furrowing, she attempted it again, with the same result. Panic rose in her chest at such a simple bodily function, moving her limbs, betraying her. It was as though her muscles had gone to sleep, without the pins-and-needles feel.

"_Oh, no_," she whimpered quietly. "No, no, no, _no_!"

God, was she too late? Had this been his game all along—tempting her to off herself, whilst making her so ill she couldn't do anything but remain immobile, trapped with nothing but her own thoughts? He was a master at psychological warfare; she wouldn't put it past him.

A fresh round of perspiration broke out on her brow, and she fought down her nausea. Was this _really_ how it was all to end? Emma Blanchard, aka The Swan, fizzling out being of no importance to anyone. No different than how the rest of her life had gone up to this point, then, really. Except now she had another who was counting on her, too.

_Breathe. Remain calm_. She forced a slow inhale through her nose, and out through her mouth. Repeated. Emma slid a cold hand against her abdomen.

"Well, sprite. I'm not giving up the goose just yet, but if we don't make it out of this pickle…we'll haunt the everliving _fuck_ out of the Allied governments."

* * *

Robin sat back, and blew out a labored breath. "Well, couldn't be sure of what we were walking into, but you know a Navy man always comes prepared. Good thing too, after hearing all that."

He reached down into one of the duffels he and Scarlet had hauled along with them, and unzipped it to reveal the radios. "Remember these, eh?"

Will began to unload them. "Seven hells, it's been ages since we used 'em. Still work?"

"Tested true," Robin verified.

Killian looked disdainfully down at the weighty two-way. He certainly hadn't missed using one. "Do we really need these? They're quite cumbersome."

"Like a brick," Will agreed, knocking the one he held against his head.

"I think it's best we keep in contact at all times, Killian. Now, don't gripe—you'll be glad you've got it, I'm positive." Robin gave a definitive nod, and turned to begin sighting his rifle. He was a mellow bloke, but Killian knew whenever he cared enough to put his foot down on an issue, that was the final word.

Will drummed a nervous hand against the tabletop. "So…tonight, then?"

"Aye. Already waited too long, but didn't think it'd do Emma any good for me to go in without backup, and get my arse shot off."

"Are you positive you want to go in alone? Seems a bit risky."

"You'll be near enough. I have faith in you lads, or I wouldn't have called on you." Killian slid his revolver into his inside breast pocket, then attached the two-way to the holster that rested against his leg, accidentally flipping it on. A high-pitched shriek of static sounded off, and he hurriedly switched it off.

"Remember…don't speak unless it's completely necessary. Bloody things make an unholy racket."

"None 'o yer orders again," Will snarled. "Ain't our novice foray into the field."

"Sorry," he bit out again; if he and Scarlet continued like this, they'd be here past sunset.

"What happens if you aren't out by quarter past, Jones?" Robin tightened a screw.

"If I'm not out in a jiffy…" he didn't even want to mull over the prospect of things going to seed. "…then something's wrong. And if that's the situation—" he gestured towards the photographs still strewn about—"I trust you'll know what to do."

"But d'you know what _you're_ doing?" This time there wasn't any needling in Will's voice this time; he genuinely wanted to be certain Killian was doubly sure about all this. He had to respect it, after relying on each other during the war, there had to be absolute clarity between them on missions.

But there was no doubt in his mind now. "Absolutely."

* * *

He straightened his coat, gave three crisp raps against the heavy door, and stepped back. It swung open, and the butler's eyes narrowed, recognizing him.

"What, may I ask, are _you_ doing here? Er…_sir_."

Killian ignored the belated simpering and pushed past him, heading straight for the stairs. "I've come to collect Miss Blanchard, peon. Stay out of my way before I have you hauled in for aiding and abetting an infamous war criminal."

Glass blanched, but still dogged his heels. "Now _sir_, I can't say I know anything about—I mean to say—er, under whose authority?"

Killian rooted in his pocket, fished out a single crown, then turned and beaned the butler straight between the eyes. "The Queen's, you plodder. Run along like a good boy. Alert your employer, save yourself…either way, I'm leaving here with Miss Blanchard."

Killian took the staircase at a fast clip, ignoring the sputtering behind him. He tried the doors, remembering the one she'd told him had been "their" bedchamber…but with this turn of events, he wasn't counting on her being in the same room anymore. At the fourth one, a soft rustling reached his ears, and he perked up, but froze with his hand on the doorknob. If the cavalry hadn't been sent up already, perhaps Emma wasn't even up here anymore. Or was in no state to assist herself….

That thought had him throwing caution to the wind, and daring to crack the door. If he was met with Rumpelsteiger's men so be it, but he hadn't the luxury of time to canvas the entire estate. Risks had to be taken.

At first, he thought the room was empty; there was hardly any furniture in it, but his quick scan of the place had his gaze reverting to the bed. What at first pass had looked like an unmade bed revealed Emma, almost disappearing into the bedclothes. Gods, her face was ghostly pale, her skin tight on her cheekbones. At the creak of the door, her eyelids fluttered, then shot open fully. She struggled for a moment to completely sit up, but Killian noticed her elbows shaking uncontrollably before she gave up.

"Killian! Killian?" She turned away from him, bottom lip just barely shaking. "I've really cracked now. Guess that means I'm on the way out."

He darted to her side in a moment. "Emma, thank God! What've they done to you, darling?"

Her stare was vacant, eyes listlessly roaming about his face. "Hmm? Oh. Tea."

"_Tea_?"

"Poison…or something. Can't get up anymore. Was something in the tea."

"Godammit," he hissed, smoothing sweaty hair back off her forehead.

"I think they wanted me to off myself, but say, listen to this. It's funny, really—I couldn't even muster the strength to move." Her fingers gripped his lapels weakly. "N-not that I'd've given them the satisfaction, you see. It's not just my fate I'm in charge of anymore."

Killian hadn't a bloody fucking clue what she was going on about; really, he just needed to remove her from that tomb. It smelled musty, as though it'd been locked up tight for at least a week. What in bloody hell had been in that concoction? Whatever they'd drugged her with had her rambling out of her mind. Had they even fed her? He honestly couldn't tell, but she felt awfully brittle when he slid his arm around her back.

"Don't speak, darling, if it's too much. I'm real, very real, and we're leaving this dreary mausoleum at once."

She grazed the backs of her fingers down his face. "That sounds lovely, Killian…but I know you aren't here. It's a very lovely dream, though. I hope it stays like this til the end."

"Enough with that kind of talk. I'm here, right here in front of your damned eyes." He picked up one hand, slapped her chilly palm to his cheek repeatedly. "See? Right here, Swan."

"But…but you went to Spain. You wanted to escape me, and then I fell to their devices. Mills said—"

"Mills is a wretched, meddling fishwife. I couldn't go to Spain."

"Why?"

"Because I was worried about you!"

"And why should you worry about me when there're Spanish fascists to stamp out, Jones?"

"_Because_, you silly, stubborn girl…I love you!"

* * *

His hand still gripped hers, mouth hanging open after his last statement, as though he couldn't believe it'd slipped out.

She tapped her fingertips against his face. "You _must_ be here; I wouldn't have dreamed that. I mean, I'd always hoped, but…."

His lips curved into a soft smile. "Hoped what, love?"

"That you loved me, too." Emma couldn't believe how she was just rattling off unheeded—well, moreso than usual. Whatever drugging reaction that had had her spouting off at Baelthazar was still in full effect, it seemed. Her hand tightened around his as much as she was able, afraid he'd shrug her off after that announcement.

He stared at her a bit, then cleared his throat. "Right, well then. Let's get on with it."

"Is there even hope for me, d'you think? Killian, I don't think I've ever been frightened before in my life, compared to now. I—I don't even feel in control of myself."

"What a question, you little fool. There's no end in sight for you whilst I'm about." Her eyelids started to droop again, and he patted the side of her face frantically. "Now, now, darling, none of that. Keep your eyes on me, alright? Don't close them." He glanced down. "Where're your dayclothes?"

"No clothes…just this…" She tittered senselessly and fanned her arms out, nightdress sleeves billowing, as she dropped back onto the pillows. Killian sat her back up, shrugging off his black trenchcoat with his good hand.

"This'll do, then. Come, Emma, put this on."

"Say it again."

"Say what, love?"

"_That_. That you love me. It'll give me strength."

He pressed his lips to her forehead as he wrestled her arms into the coat sleeves. "I love you."

She smiled, leaning into his embrace. "Keep going."

"I love you." He stood up, taking her with him, an arm around her waist. "I _love_ you."

"That's good. More."

They started towards the door, Killian walking and keeping Emma upright in his tight hold, though her feet stumbled along. "I love you, Swan. And you've got to hold on for me, because…because I don't know what I'll do the rest of my life without you."

"Hmm, nice. I liked that one." Her head lolled against his shoulder as he began maneuvering them down the stairs. "Keep going."

"We're going to the hospital, right then. They'll get you all freshened up. Doesn't that sound prime, love?"

Her fingertips tightened on his arms. "Mmhmm. Then what? Where do I go after that?"

"Where do _we_ go, you mean." The hand at her waist tightened. "You're stuck with me now, darling. _Mine_."

"For a supposedly…modern…20th century man, you're…still an…utter boor," Emma said, a smile flickering over her lips. Killian pressed his own together to keep the snort of laughter in, though that just made it exit somewhat painfully out his nose. His worry for her was growing though; her speech was coming out in halting gasps, little clumps of words at a time, before she had to draw breath for more.

"Guilty, love. But I've found I'm rather a single-minded Neanderthal when it comes to you." They'd reached the top of the staircase. "Think you can walk at all?"

"I've refused anything they gave me to eat or drink for a couple days now, to try and get some vigor back." She looked up at him, eyes shadowed. "I knew there was something in my meals, Killian. I knew they were poisoning me, but I had no choice except to take it, or starve."

_I'll kill them all, a bloody million times over_.

Emma was still speaking. "I tried to get up earlier, and couldn't. But maybe…if you help… Really, I'm already feeling better with you here."

He began maneuvering them carefully down the stairs, made more difficult with his good hand holding his pistol at the ready, and the bulky two-way thwacking his thigh at each step.

"Emma, you're dozing again. C'mon, love, try. You can do it."

She stopped so sharply, they both nearly tumbled to the bottom. "I think…I think I need a replenishment of fortitude." Her cold hands cupped either side of his face lightly, a touch so light it was almost impalpable, and fit her mouth to his.

His facilities short-circuited; it could be the only explanation for how he took leave of his senses following the feel of Emma's lips gliding against his, the feel of the tip of her tongue giving a feathery touch along the seam of his own.

Not the time, not the place, not the bloody _occasion_, pulsed through what little intelligence was still present, but goddammit, they'd been estranged too long. Damn it to hell, he'd been such a fool—how did she even still want him? His left arm bumped against the wall adjacent to the staircase, shielding her back from impact as he returned her kiss with a desperate fervor.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he sighed between breaths. "I love you, I love—"

Emma managed to pull back. "Killian, I love you too, and all, but I…have to tell…you something. It might change things."

Sakes alive, a full-out snogging in the middle of the Rumpelsteiger main staircase, and now some heartfelt confession? At this rate, they'd escape the mansion by dawn. "Emma, I'd love to hear it, but let's wait til I've got you safe, love. We've dallied too long already." He returned his stance to one of helping her back down the stairs.

"But, Killian—"

"Trust me, darling—nothing you can say will make one whit of difference in my feelings for you."

She still looked at him uncertainly, but there wasn't anymore time for dawdling. He practically lifted her off her feet as they began the descent again. "I promise, whatever you need to tell me, I'll listen fully—once we're out of this bloody house."

She nodded against his neck, one hand gripping his collar. "Alright." Emma glanced up as they reached the bottom. "Killian, we're nearly out."

Killian swore he could feel his heart rate pick up; all he needed now was to give the signal to Scarlet and Locksley, then bundle Emma and himself into a cab. His mates would follow behind them, while making sure they weren't followed. It seemed almost too good to be true—the house was still silent and Glass was nowhere to be found. Perhaps the thought of government reprisal _had_ kept his mouth shut? "Like a rat on a sinking ship," Killian muttered darkly. He guided Emma over to the side once they reached the bottom of the bannister, and wrapped her hands around the carved finial top, pressing them down firmly.

He forced a smile for her benefit, tried to joke: "You're a bit heavier than I remember, darling. Think you can hold yourself up for a moment?"

Her nose wrinkled at his remark. "Go jump…" she rasped, the corners of her mouth faintly curling, "…in…a lake." But then she nodded as well. "Yes. I'll…be fine."

Killian brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. "Won't be but a—"

Emma tossed her head, shaking him loose. "_Go_, idiot. Want…to get…the hell out of here."

He crossed to the front door in two leaps, flung it open, and with relief saw the idling cab. Pressing the talk button, wincing at the quick burst of static, he murmured: "In place?"

Locksley's voice answered first. "All set, Killian. I'm on the ground, Will's in his perch."

"Copy that," crackled Will's check-in.

"Right then. Remember…any trouble with the Rumpelsteigers, Emma's got enough on them now. If they attempt to follow…shoot to kill."

"Roger," crackled over from both radios.

Killian couldn't help the wide grin that spread over his face, and gave a courtesy wave to the driver. "All set, Swan?"

All he heard was a soft _swish_ through the air, and then Emma's scratchy voice grated: "_Killian_."

Her stilted tone said everything; he smoothly slid his hand towards his breast pocket before turning around.

"Ah, ah, ah, none of that, good sire," a singsong voice rang out. "You just remove your weapon and slide it on over here."

Killian clenched his jaw til it twinged and turned, already knowing what he'd find. Rumpelsteiger was poised behind Emma, one arm wrapped tightly around her waist, a gnarled claw digging into her hip, the other holding a blade to her throat. He hadn't made a sound, and no wonder: he'd gotten rid of his shoes, ambushing Emma in his stocking feet.

"Mighty unsporting of you, mate," Killian said in a deceptively calm voice as he leaned down and slid his revolver along the smooth marble to stop at Rumpelsteiger's toe. "Holding an unarmed woman at knifepoint." Only his eyes, icy and hard as it met Emma's deer-in-the-headlights gaze, revealed his actual agitated state.

Rumpelsteiger let out his signature irritating giggle. "If you're trying to appeal to some erroneous sense of honor within me, well…don't bother. What little there is left, that is." He nodded towards the two-way clutched in Killian's prosthesis. "Now, be a good boy and dismantle that as well. Right _now_. And don't try anything heroic."

Killian reluctantly unstrapped the two-way, then dashed it on the tiles. The plastic splintered, scattering across the foyer into dozens of pieces, while a single dying trill of static burst from it. Emma started at the sound, but still tried keeping still as possible with the knife at her throat. He sent a small nod and half-smile her way. _Good. Steady then, lass._

"And take out whatever other firearms you've concealed on your person."

Killian began edging towards them with his hands held up in front of him. "Nothing else on me, _mate_."

"Stop where you are," Rumpelsteiger barked, pressing the blade closer to Emma's throat, forcing a little gasp from her. "Roll up your trouser legs."

Killian obliged, risking a sardonic smirk when it revealed nothing but his solid black dress socks. Not that he went anywhere without full preparation; a small, single-bullet revolver was strapped carefully next to one of his more…delicate organs. He doubted Rumpelsteiger would have him strip to his skivvies, yet still had to contain a sigh of relief when the psychopath motioned him to lower his pants and stand straight again.

He kept his hands held up obligingly. "Don't do anything rash, Rumpelsteiger. I have this compound of yours surrounded with the best snipers that ever joined the British Navy."

"Oh, you won't do a thing, Agent, not whilst your plaything—hmm, I suppose that's wrong, isn't it? Because if she were a mere plaything, you'd have done your sworn do-gooder duty and shot me on sight. And you certainly never would have tried to abscond with this little wretch in the first place." He scored the metal tip lightly down Emma's neck all the way to her clavicle, running it about the slender bone, before running it back up to the spot beneath her chin. Her bottom lip was colorless from how hard she was biting it, her eyes glittering brightly with unshed tears.

"You know, dearie…I've always liked the more personal touch in ending a life. I was lauded for my expertise at wearing down the very essence of a person, but there's still something just so satisfyingly visceral about plunging a good, solid instrument of destruction into another, letting their blood pump out over your hands."

"Emma, he's trying to scare you. Pay him no heed!"

Rumpelsteiger ignored his outburst. "I took no pleasure in my niece's death, though of course, that was partly from using a firearm." Rumpelsteiger giggled nastily. "Anyways…I'd have probably never discovered her doublecrossing if it weren't for you. How does it feel, Miss Blanchard, to have been responsible for a young woman's death, one who had her whole life ahead of her—until _you_ came along?"

Emma's lips parted, but Killian cut in. "Don't listen to him, darling—just a means to get under your skin. You've no responsibility in what happened with—"

" '_Under your skin_'?" Rumpelsteiger tittered again. "What an apt idiom, Agent, considering the position Miss Blanchard and I are in." He ran the blade teasingly back along the side of her neck, then lightening-fast, nicked her shallowly. Emma cried out, more from the surprise than pain. Killian clenched his fist, forcing himself to remain immobile as he watched the small bead of red gather before seeping languidly down over her collarbone.

"You're dead, Rumpelsteiger. D'you hear me? _Dead_."

"Not in much of a bargaining position, are you, _laddie_?"

Emma tried to plead with only her eyes for the stubborn ox to just keep still, but Killian's gaze was fixed on Rumpelsteiger, his irises almost overtaken by his pupils in anger.

"Killian, _please_," she dared to whisper, then gasped when she felt Rumpelsteiger's stale breath tickle her right ear.

"He doesn't know, does he, little sneak? Hmm?"

"Don't you dare address her!" Killian's frustrated yell echoed in the foyer.

"Well?" Rumpelsteiger's painful grip on her waist snaked down to her abdomen, pressing into an equally bruising vise. "Do you think you'd have been an upstanding mother, little bird?" He tsked to himself, then continued lowly: "But what am I saying? Someone like you: a destitute hussy, trying to raise another human? And not have them turn out as much a failure as you?"

"Emma, whatever he's buzzing on about, don't listen!"

"Really, dearie, I'll be doing you a favor here—putting you and your spawn out of your misery." He pressed his face impossibly closer. "Wouldn't it be a comfort…to finally shut out this world that's been nothing but cruel to you?"

She could feel a hot tear burn a path down her dry cheek, but still rasped out: "Killian?"

"Aye, lass?"

"Can you say it again?"

A smirk bloomed on his face, quickly spreading to a full grin that replaced the anxiety. "I love you."

"Thank you." She leaned in towards Rumpelsteiger, startling him, and saying in a stage whisper, "Fuck _you_. You'll have to do better than that."

Rumpelsteiger laughed hollowly. "_Love_. Really now, Miss…whoever you are. Do you really think love's going to save you now?"

"I know it will. It already has."

"I love you, darling. You're doing splendidly."

Rumpelsteiger glared darkly at Killian. "Shut up."

"I don't think I will," came the insolent reply. Bright blue eyes turned back on Emma; their focus completely on her. "I love you."

"Shut _up_!"

"Fear an emotion you've no experience with, Rumpelsteiger? One I'd wager you can't even fathom?"

The knife-wielding hand shook slightly; though he was glad to be unnerving the man, Killian wasn't going to risk playing with Emma's life.

"I demand you shut—"

The door opposite the foyer leading the kitchens burst open, and Killian prepared to make a lunge towards Rumpelsteiger. Unfortunately the interruption didn't even garner a glance in its direction.

"Papa!" Baelthazar panted, hands going to his knees. "Papa, they've—" He stopped as he took in the scene before him, jaw dropping. "What's—"

"_I_ do the interrogating around here, boy, _not_ you. Cease your stuttering; what's all this commotion going on within my estate?!"

A shout echoed from behind the door Baelthazar had just come from.

"They—they've ambushed Herr Doktor, Ritter, the guards, the servants. They're after me, Papa!"

"And who are 'they'?" Rumpelsteiger queried flatly, toying again with the knife. Emma let out a low hiss as he purposefully nicked her again.

"I don't know! Men all in black, rifles—"

Killian worked to keep his face expressionless. Could Graham have sent help? Who else besides his Navy brothers knew that he'd been dead-set on extracting Emma? If Rumpelsteiger's cronies were being taken down elsewhere on the property, this could all be over soon. Though he didn't want to leave anything to chance. Perhaps he could rustle up some self-preservation instincts in the man—everyone had their breaking point.

"It's over, Rumpelstieger," Killian boomed over the yells coming from all over the house now, inching closer. "My men have you in their sights, your people are most likely being booked as war criminals as we speak. Just let Emma come to me, and I'll have them stand down." His words rang true. If it meant being a failed agent, so be it. There'd be other opportunities to bag Rumpelsteiger, but Killian only had moments to save the woman he loved.

Rumpelsteiger sighed, sounding annoyed. "Don't you understand by now? You've lost, young man. We—no, I—have won, I've won for the Reich. I always win."

"You're bloody insane, is what you are. Things are going to pieces all around you. Why not just save yourself, eh, mate?"

"I believe I still have the upper hand here, Mr.—"

A shot rang out: deafening, startling, shattering. One of the decorative window panes above the front door now lay in pieces on the other side, and Baelthazar had a hand pressed to his hastily reddening shoulder, flopping around on the marble much like a dying fish.

"Hells bells! Gods, I'm been dropped!"

"Well then," Killian observed coolly, masking a rapid surge of adrenalin running through him. "S'pose it's a quarter past."

Rumpelsteiger finally seemed to start grasping just how the scene was slipping from his control. "I—no—it's—" Foolishly, he swung his irked expression from Killian over to his son for a moment—but it was long enough.

"Simply a flesh wound, you idiotic—"

Killian lunged.

* * *

**_A/N: I thought this would be the penultimate chapter, but started getting carried away...anyways, there will probably be 2 more after this now. This chap gave me issues, but I hope you enjoyed!_**


End file.
